Black and Blue
by Numpty
Summary: Post-Shadow. A return to Palo Alto to help one of Sam's old friends could have dire consequences when Dean goes missing. Now complete!
1. Cabin Fever

I haven't written fanfic in a long time, but Supernatural grabbed hold of my muse and refused to let go. This was the result. It is going to be a multi-chap fic intended to fit in between Shadow and Hell House.

This work is as yet, not beta'd. If anyone would like to volunteer...

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Black and Blue**

Summary: Post-Shadow. A return to Palo Alto to help one of Sam's old friends could have dire consequences when Dean goes missing.

_Anybody can become angry - that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power and is not easy._

- Aristotle

**Chapter 1 – Cabin Fever**

The sludge coloured stain on the ceiling looked like an elephant pushing a wheelbarrow, Dean Winchester decided as he squinted up at it from his supine position on the motel bed. It was by far the most interesting feature that the room had to offer, and Dean had spent a long time looking. He wrinkled his nose, thinking he probably didn't want to know what the stain was, where it had come from, and how the hell it had found it's way onto the ceiling.

The room was dark, shadows clinging to the corners like cobwebs, despite the laboured attempts of several lamps dotted around the room. The weak light limping in through the window did little to assist it's fellows with the seemingly impossible task. Though it was mid-morning it felt dusky, the sun struggling to forage a path through the heavy storm-bearing clouds marring the sky.

He heaved a huge sigh, feeling the lumpy mattress beneath him dig into his back uncomfortably as his muscles relaxed downwards. The motels they stayed in were always more for expediency than comfort, but sometimes Dean fantasised about the feather-soft mattresses and plump pillows he was sure were on offer in the luxury hotels that existed in other peoples' realities, especially if he had a warm and willing body to share it with. His mouth curved upwards into a smirk at the thought.

It was about the only thing that could make him smile these days.

"What?"

Sam had evidently glanced up from his laptop in time to see Dean's amused expression. The elder Winchester snorted slightly as his eyes flashed across the room to where his brother's form sat hunched at the small table with the laptop, fingers splayed across the keys as if he was a concert pianist preparing to launch into an epic recital.

They had apparently progressed to fully formed words now, as opposed to the monosyllabic grunts which had come to represent what passed for conversation between them over the past few days.

"Nothin'" came Dean's automatic reply before he'd even formed a coherent thought, his expression flattening as his mental shutters came crashing down. Any pleasure he'd derived from his daydream had evaporated the instant his brother had spoken and wrenched him back to reality.

Sam's features drew into a scowl, the still healing gouges on his cheek from the Daevas' claws stretching slightly as his lips pursed, and he huffed in annoyance as he returned his gaze to the computer screen before him.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling slightly guilty – Sam had made an effort after all, albeit a sullen and half-hearted one. Wiping a hand across his eyelids he willed himself to try and cobble together the energy to communicate with his brother. It had never seemed this hard, even during the tempestuous months which had preceded Sam's departure for Stanford. But then, Sam had been angry at their father and not at Dean himself.

The easy camaraderie they had spent months re-building – even if there had been more than a few hiccups along the way – seemed to have vanished the instant John Winchester had turned his back on his sons in that alleyway in Chicago, and Dean didn't know how to get it back.

More than that, he wasn't sure he even could.

"Anything?" he ground out, his gravelly vocal chords not having been used to this level of exertion over the past few days.

The debacle in with his father, Meg and the Daevas in Chicago had taken a lot out of him, both emotionally and physically.

He could still feel the pull of the stitches in his side that Sam had fastidiously applied after his brush with the Daeva, though after a few days of laying low the pain had receded to the occasional sharp stab if he twisted around too quickly. He'd gotten better at hiding that now though, so at least he didn't have to endure Sam's patented 'frown of disapproving concern'.

Dean quirked an eyebrow wryly as he thought about the one factor Sam's anger at him hadn't been able to diminish. It seemed his brother had hovering down to an art form, or at least he had until he was sure that Dean was actually getting better – or until he was sure that whatever pain Dean was surely hiding from him was at an acceptable level.

The elder hunter's emotional wounds weren't healing so easily however, they festered and nagged and refused to respond to treatment, like they had gained immunity from his overuse of avoidance tactics.

Dean could have taught a master-class on burying emotional trauma – he'd learned from the best after all – but this time the guilt, self-doubt and self-loathing were proving too much even for him to suppress. The more he tried to push them away, the more they rebounded upon him, re-opening the deep slashes and making them bleed anew.

The list was long: the terror and deep-seated sense of failure he had felt upon realising that he and Sam were being used as bait to lure their father to his death; the incredible euphoria of seeing his father whole and unharmed, only to come to the gut-wrenching conclusion that being together – being a family – would put him in more danger; Sam's anger at him for being the one to tell John to leave; Sam telling Meg that Dean dragged him across the country like a piece of luggage.

Sam saying he wanted to go back to college and be a _real person_ again. Sam saying he didn't _want_ to stay with his family.

Dean reckoned he could have kept a lid on all of these torments, it might have taken every weapon in his arsenal, but he'd have beaten them down eventually, if not for one inescapable fact: regardless of all that they had been through together, all they'd seen, all they'd done, the bond they had painstakingly rebuilt...Sam was only with him for revenge.

As soon as the demon who had wrought so much damage over their lives was gone, so was Sam.

Dean couldn't help but feel that he was a means to an end. He knew that Sam would lay down his life for him in a second, he'd never doubted that – even if it scared him more than he liked to admit – but he'd thought they were becoming a family again. He'd thought that was more important to his brother, but he should have known better. His father and brother seemed to make use of him when they needed him, but otherwise were happy to toddle off and do their own thing.

Without him.

It wasn't like he didn't want his brother to be happy. Hell, it was pretty much all he'd ever wanted. The only thing that had made sense to him in his screwed-up existence was protecting Sam, keeping him safe, making him happy. Without that job, he was nothing.

He just wanted Sam to be happy being with _him_. He wanted him to be happy being with his family. He wanted that to be enough for him. But it wasn't, and it never had been. Dean had been kidding himself if he'd thought that had changed.

"Nope" The reply floated across to Dean on the crest of a sigh.

Sam was hurting. Dean knew that, and was deeply frustrated by his own part in it.

It hadn't exactly been a walk in the park for Sam either, what with finding out Meg's true agenda and seeing his father for the first time since their apocalyptic pre-Stanford screaming match. Then Dean had to go and thwart him in his quest to join their father in the hunt for the demon who had not only murdered his mother and girlfriend, but who had utterly decimated the life he had loved so much.

Dean felt the guilt over his decision keenly, knowing how much pain it had caused his brother, and many times since had wondered if it had been the right one. But his father had agreed, and even Sam had relented in the end. Aside from that, he missed his father, and it had nearly killed him to let him go again.

"So not one single person in the whole of this great country has ganked it in a way that is remotely supernatural?" Dean snorted, shifting himself into a sitting position and ignoring the pull in his side as he moved.

Sam shot up suddenly, as if all the tension that had been coiling within him had finally sprung, and slammed the screen of the laptop down with an unexpected vehemence which made Dean flinch slightly.

"Dean, I've spent hours scouring the internet while you've been lying over there staring at the ceiling and there is _nothing_. Nothing! If you think you can do so much better then knock yourself out!" He flung himself backwards on his bed, hands covering his tired eyes.

Now they were talking in sentences. Progress in action.

"Naw Sammy, think I'll leave the research to my geekboy sidekick!" Dean joked, trying to diffuse the thick blanket of tension which had settled around them since Chicago, but it was like trying to put out a raging fire with a glass of water.

He got nothing. Not even a twitch.

The strained atmosphere hadn't been helped by the fact that they had been forced to spend the past few days holed up in this godforsaken pit of a motel room; a fate which had befallen them due to the Impala having suffered a breakdown which couldn't be fixed until a part had been ordered in. They'd made it as far as Sandwich, Illinois – a name which had caused Dean no end of amusement, until they'd had to spend three whole days there.

There was that, and the fact that nothing even in the neighbourhood of supernatural appeared to have occurred across the entire country.

Dean was perfectly prepared to admit that he was bored out of his mind. Even daytime TV had lost it's appeal after a while. And with nothing better to do, the two of them had been circling each other, baiting and sniping in a way that had started out harmless but had more than once strayed into dangerous territory.

A motel room had never seemed so small.

Dean rose stiffly from his bed and shuffled hopefully over to the window overlooking the parking lot to see if the rain had stopped, or at least abated.

It hadn't.

The parking lot now resembled a small lake, cars moored like yachts around the edge as the rain continued to fall and the storm drains struggled to cope with the deluge. Dean stood for a moment, mesmerised as the droplets bounced off the surface, creating tiny dancing pin pricks.

God he was bored. And a bored Dean Winchester was never a good thing.

"You know I almost wish you'd get one of your freaky visions. At least we'd have something to work with" He said absently, running a hand along the stubble on his chin. He should probably shave.

The tension which had been simmering between them had been bound to ignite eventually. Like the weather raging outside, the air in the motel room had been heavy with the promise of thunder and lightning, the tumult of the storm being necessary before clear skies could reign once more.

Dean had missed Sam's sharp intake of breath as the sting hit home so he was totally unprepared when a hand grabbed his arm and whipped him round, unbalancing him.

Sam narrowed his eyes as Dean winced at the movement and steadied himself, but made no remark.

Dean almost wanted to take a step back from the dangerous expression on his not-so little brother's face as he towered over him, but showing weakness of any sort went against every fibre of his being, even to Sam – _especially_ to Sam.

"How could you say that Dean?" Sam's face was now inches from his own as his brother attempted to stare him down, the fury pinching his features betrayed by the pain his eyes couldn't mask.

"Dude, personal space" Dean snarked in reply as he deftly moved out of the way, guiltily trying to avoid meeting his brother's gaze.

"I can't believe you, of all people, would joke about this!" Sam threw up his hands in a gesture of frustration.

Dean couldn't either, but he was damned if he was going to give ground on this now. He was on a roll.

"I mean, after everything that happened with Jess...and-and Max Miller, and back in Lawrence!" Sam continued, his expression thunderous and his body rigid with anger. "What kind of screwed up life do we lead if we actually _want_ people to die so that we have a job to do?"

That one struck home, and Dean reacted to the barb in the only way he knew how.

"Oh come on princess!" Dean threw back, his face twisting into a sneer. "What, you can't even take a joke now? College must have made you soft Sammy! You gonna start painting your nails now, huh? Should I start stocking up on body lotion?"

"Just shut up Dean!" The elder Winchester suddenly found himself falling backwards onto his bed with an undignified flailing of limbs as Sam gave him a furious shove. "I've had it with you!"

It had been said many a time that Dean Winchester simply did not know when to stop. It had gotten him into trouble on more occasions than he could count. It was as if his mouth sprinted on ahead, leaving his poor brain to stumble after, breathless and winded as it scrambled to perform damage limitation.

He pushed himself up off the bed, ignoring the pain in his side, anger now ignited and finding a plentiful supply of fuel in all of his pent up emotions. His hands began to ball into fists as he took a slow and controlled step forward, his eyes never leaving Sam's. "Well then why don't you just leave?" he gestured towards the door. "Nobody's stopping you! It's not like you even _want _to be here! Look, I'll even open the door for you, that's how much of a gentleman I am"

He should have expected the flash of pain and the explosion of white light behind his eyes as Sam's fist connected with his jaw. But somehow he hadn't.

He spun around with the force of the hit, falling forwards towards his bed but bouncing off the edge and rolling to the floor. Dazed, he could only stare impotently as Sam grabbed his jacked and threw it around his shoulders.

"Fine Dean. Have it your way" Sam ground out through clenched teeth, before flinging the door open and marching out.

Dean flinched as the door slammed shut, raising a hand gingerly to his already swelling lip and raising his eyebrows in mild surprise as his fingers came back red.

Dean felt his body sag as the anger rushed out of him like air escaping a balloon. Sammy packed one hell of a punch, but Dean was well aware that he had deserved it.

Please review, but be kind! I'd forgotten how scary this is!

Next chapter we'll hear from Sam.


	2. Poor Twisted Me

Thanks to all who reviewed – your encouragement means so much! :)

More scene setting now, and it's Sammy's turn.

Hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 2 – Poor Twisted Me**

Sam Winchester's anger burned with a physical intensity which almost frightened him, and it took a seemingly herculean effort to stop himself from putting a fist through the nearest shop window as he splashed down the street, hair plastered to his head and clothes clinging to his body like a second skin as the rain continued to pour down.

He could feel his muscles rippling beneath the skin of his hands, as if they were literally itching to grab something and squeeze – and with Dean's neck being a temptation he hadn't been certain he could resist, he'd had to get away. Sam flexed the hand he had used to hit his brother, wincing as he stretched the bruises that had already started to form across his knuckles. He was actually impressed at his own restraint.

He took a deep shuddering breath, and attempted to push away the tension. He felt his fevered muscles start to slacken off as he took control over his body, and the fog began to clear from his head. Sam thought he had done a pretty good job of calming himself down until he noticed that people were starting to cross the road to avoid him, shooting him nervous looks as they went.

Catching sight of his reflection in the window of a small boutique boasting a 'better than half-price sale!' he realised how frightening he must have looked, with his jaw clenched and teeth bared. He'd been so focused on the rest of his body he hadn't noticed that he had effectively been snarling at anyone who so much as glanced in his direction. Not to mention the fact that his face looked as if it had been worked over by an angry wildcat.

"Huh" He said out loud, the wind having been well and truly taken out of his sails. He surveyed his surroundings and realised that his anger had propelled him further than he had thought. He had already passed the diner that he and Dean had been frequenting over the past few days several blocks back.

They had chosen the place closest to the motel, the layer of grime and grease coating every surface of the place not being the most appealing of advertisements for the food – although typically Dean hadn't been too bothered, a burger being a burger regardless of hygiene - but the weather had been a fairly effective disincentive to venture further than necessary.

Sam paused, trying to decide whether to look for somewhere else to find a cup of coffee or to retrace his steps to the diner where he knew the brew tasted like warmed up dirt. He looked down at his drenched form; there wasn't much point in being precious now, and a few more minutes in the rain wouldn't make much difference.

He walked onwards, starting to feel soothed by the rain as if it was cleansing his skin of the anger which had boiled beneath it only minutes ago, but he knew he really needed to find shelter before it started to chill him.

Getting ill would do him no favours, he knew Dean would grouch at him over his carelessness – as he fussed over him in that gruffly concerned way that was so _Dean_ - and he couldn't afford to have his abilities affected for the job they did. How could he be there to back up his brother if he was laid up with a fever?

It was probably already too late for that, but Sam couldn't bring himself to go back to the motel room just yet. This brief oasis of calm had been the most fun he'd had in a long time, and he felt more pathetic than ever at that. He didn't want to face his own anger or Dean's resentment until he'd had some space to clear his thoughts.

Wiping away some of the excess rainwater that had dripped into his eyes from his flattened fringe, he caught sight of a coffee bar across the road and smiled at the thought of wrapping his hands around a steaming mug of proper brew.

Maybe there would even be a cute Barista...Sam shook his head slightly as he crossed the road, sending flecks of water flying as his hair whipped back and forth. He'd been having more and more thoughts like this lately, and every time it happened it felt like a betrayal. Jess hadn't even been dead a year.

He'd sat outside Meg's apartment in Chicago and had shamelessly watched as she paraded before the window in her underwear. Afterwards he'd hated himself. Jess had died because of him. The woman he'd wanted to make his wife. How could he even _look_ at anyone else?

The point became moot anyway, the person serving at the counter was most definitely not of the female persuasion, although he looked as if he had spent considerable time in front of the mirror that morning.

With hair looking as if it had been artfully and meticulously sculpted into dishevelled spikes with just the right amount of nonchalance, a snug-fitting black t-shirt and designer stubble, he could have walked straight off the catwalk and behind the counter.

Sam had to stifle a snigger as he realised the guy had probably spent hours trying to effect the look that Dean naturally wore like a comfortable jacket. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd watched Dean ruffle his wet hair into spikes with a ratty motel towel, grab a random shirt out of his duffel and hurry out the door – shaving being low on the list of priorities behind eliminating whatever monster they were ganking that week.

The man caught his eye as Sam approached the counter, giving his drenched and rumpled appearance the once over and smiling with the kind of disdainful arrogance that would have had Dean reaching for his concealed weapon with deadly intent.

Sam hid a grin as he ordered, watching as the other man paused to check his reflection against the chrome of the coffee machine as steam began to rise.

For a moment he wished Dean was with him, thinking that his brother would have enjoyed the show and would probably have punctured the guy's ego with a well aimed barb, but then he remembered why he was alone.

Sam had already dismissed the wannabe catalogue model from his mind as he took his coffee and edged up onto a stool by the window, his position affording him a scintillating view of the rain washed street through glass steamed up from the hot air inside the room – most of which was probably coming from the pretentious moron making the coffee.

He wasn't there for the scenery however, and he felt a shiver run through him as the chill from his wet clothes began to settle into his bones despite the warmth around him.

He hunched forward, staring down into the murky dark liquid in his mug without any conscious recognition of what he was looking at – his mind's eye was showing him something different: his father's face, beaten and bloody, but with a smile which radiated all the feeling and emotion that his mouth would never truly articulate.

John Winchester was so like Dean; neither were particularly adept at putting feelings into words – and indeed actively avoided anything resembling emotion, unless it happened to be anger - but their eyes were always more eloquent than their words could ever hope to be.

One look from John and Sam had known that those fateful words - spoken with the haste and thoughtlessness of anger, his father's last ditch attempt to force him not to leave - the ones which Sam had heard ringing painfully in his ears for years afterwards, were just words.

John Winchester was a complicated man, his mind an endlessly convoluted labyrinth concealed behind a guarded façade of controlled indifference, but Sam knew that his father loved him – it wasn't the demonstrative love of a devoted father, but it was love all the same.

More than that. John _understood_. He got it. Dean, for all he'd tried, couldn't comprehend the gut wrenching pain of losing the love of his life, the person he'd chosen to devote himself to utterly and completely, the person he'd wanted to father children with and have family barbecues in the backyard with.

All of that had been so cruelly ripped from him by the demon, and the fire that burned within him at the thought of that murdering bastard flashed as hot as that which had turned his world to ash. The desire for revenge was all-consuming, every second unbearable until he could watch the life ebbing from the demon's eyes.

When Sam had told Dean he wanted to be a real person again, he'd meant that he didn't feel whole, like some vital part of himself had been torn from him when Jess had died. He needed that demon gone so that he could rebuild himself, feel alive again. Dean meant well, he just didn't understand him.

But John _knew_, had _known_ that pain for almost as long as Sam had been alive. He _knew_ how Sam felt, and for the first time it felt like he and his father were on the same page when in the past he hadn't felt like they were even in the same library.

His father had spent the past twenty-two years hunting the demon with a single-mindedness that Sam just hadn't understood when he was growing up. He'd never known his mother, and though he wished with an almost childlike intensity that he could have remembered just one thing about her, he couldn't miss what he'd never had. His father and Dean rarely talked about her, but when they did it was with a devastated awe that made Sam feel achingly bereft.

But he'd never known the soul-deep pain of loss until he'd lost Jess. But then, it wasn't just his soul mate that had been taken from him, it was the life they'd shared, the hopes and dreams and plans they'd talked about in the middle of the night when they'd lain together. His entire world had collapsed when she'd gone, as if she was the cornerstone of it all. And the life he had now seemed so impoverished in comparison.

Sam clenched his fists in frustration. His father had been _there_, right in front of him. His best chance of getting the revenge he so desperately craved.

And then Dean had gone and told him to leave.

And John had agreed. Just like that.

It was as if the two of them were conspiring to control his life, to stop him from achieving the one goal that kept him breathing, that kept him going when every fragment of his shattered being urged him to curl into a ball and scream.

He'd felt so betrayed when Dean had said it: _Dad, you can't come with us_. He'd always thought he could count on Dean to back him up, that he was the scaffolding which held his world together.

And then the one person he'd relied on for his entire life had demolished all his illusions that he was finally being treated as an equal – that he had some say.

Sam had agreed with them in the end. He'd known that neither of them would back down, neither of them would listen to him. They never did. He'd been forced to toe the line all through his childhood, being dragged backwards and forwards across the country like the luggage he'd compared himself to with Meg.

Sam took a sip of coffee, somewhat surprised to find that it was now stone cold. He'd been chewing on his own thoughts for longer than he'd realised, trying to bite his anger into manageable chunks. He needed to get himself under control before he returned to the motel room.

And to Dean.

It wasn't really what Dean had said earlier that had bothered him – although he was still sore at his brother's cavalier ridicule of the psychic abilities that had Sam lying awake at night in fear of what his visions might show him next.

Their argument had been a volcano just waiting to erupt, the seismic signs had been rolling around for days. Dean's hurt and frustration coupled with Sam's anger and resentment had slowly begun to rip them apart at the seams, the threads straining to hold them together as they attempted to grapple with the revelations and events of Chicago.

Being stuck in that godforsaken motel room for the past few days had been like turning on a flood light and laying it all bare, amplifying even the tiniest of irritations and turning them into motives for murder; like the way Dean's habitual gargling routine after brushing his teeth in the morning had made Sam's fingers twitch convulsively with the desire to shove his toothbrush down his throat.

If they could just have found a new hunt, something to focus on, instead of festering in that mouldy room...

If they could at least fix the Impala then they could get out of Sandwich. Moving on always seemed to help, as if not putting down physical roots stopped the seeds sown by anger and pain and hurt from taking hold.

The mechanic at the local garage had promised Dean that the part should arrive soon, though he'd looked slightly afraid at the dangerous expression on his brother's face. Sam normally found these situations hysterically amusing. Dean could be like a mother protecting a baby when it came to his car, and it usually provided endless opportunities for Sam to wind him up.

This time though, Dean had been unbearable, and teasing him would have been like kicking a hornet's nest until it exploded. Sam had wisely refrained, although at the time he'd almost done it just for the sake of starting a fight and getting it over with.

With a grimace, Sam abandoned his coffee and slid off the stool. He really ought to be getting back, but the rain had continued to batter down with a vengeance while he'd been inside drying off, and the thought of making the long walk to the motel was more than a little depressing. He'd been so blasé earlier when he'd been looking for a place to shelter that he hadn't really considered how far he'd have to walk on his return.

He paused at the door, sighed, and then steeled himself. He'd faced down ghosts, poltergeists, Wendigos, shapeshifters, homicidal maniacs...and he was fazed by a little rain. He smiled slightly at how normal he'd almost sounded; worrying about the weather. He allowed himself some comfort at that; he'd not completely lost his sense of normalcy. He'd need it when he went back to college.

He didn't even allow himself the thought that he might never go back.

* * *

><p>When Sam pushed open the door to the motel room, Dean was shrugging on a jacket, wincing as he stretched his injured side.<p>

Dean's lower jaw was beginning to bruise already, and he'd used a small butterfly bandage to close the wound in his lip where Sam had split the skin with his knuckles. Seeing the sight made Sam feel slightly guilty; the wound on Dean's forehead caused by the Daeva had barely healed and Sam had gone and added more.

But then he remembered he was supposed to be angry.

Something thick and soft thumped against his stomach and Sam looked downwards, somewhat surprised to see his hands now clutching one of the motel's lumpy towels.

"You'd better dry off before you flood the place" Dean casually tossed over at him before picking up his car keys from the night-stand next to his bed.

Sam raised his eyebrows in mild surprise at the pool of water already forming at his feet. "Where are you going?"

"Got a call from the garage. Part's in" Dean replied, not meeting Sam's gaze as he stood idly fiddling with the Impala's keys.

Sam watched his brother's face as the older man studiously avoided him. Dean always shied away from direct eye contact when he was feeling guilty about something. Sam realised that was probably as good an apology as he was going to get.

"It's fixed?" he asked, rubbing the towel through his hair and making it stand up in tousled tufts.

"You think I'd let a bunch of yahoos any where near my baby?" Dean snorted in disbelief as he moved past Sam to the door. "Nah, I'm going down there to fix her myself"

"Just try not to frighten the locals!" Sam joked, surprised at how natural their banter felt again, as if their earlier fight really had cleared the air, like the crisp freshness that always followed a storm.

"Long as they keep their hands off my baby, they can keep their hands" Dean dead-panned, and then ruined the effect with a grin.

Sam laughed, the tension easing away from him like dissipating fog.

"I'll be back soon, and the Impala will be back to her old self, then we can get the hell out of here" Dean pivoted and grabbed the doorknob.

"Amen to that"

The elder Winchester paused, hand still on the doorknob, and swivelled his head around to look back at his brother, his eyes openly surveying Sam's bedraggled appearance.

"You'd better get yourself warmed up before you get sick. I don't want to be hauling your sneezy ass around for the next coupla days"

Dean.

"Speak for yourself! The garage isn't exactly across the street" Sam retorted, knowing his brother would get himself soaked walking to the garage, and then would probably stand for several hours in the cold fixing his car.

"I don't get sick" Dean grinned once more before whipping open the door and splashing off across the parking lot, jeans already soaked to his calves.

"Yeah you do, you're just too stubborn to admit it" Sam murmured to his retreating form before closing the door, remembering only too well the kick to the gut he'd felt when that doctor had told him Dean would only have a month to live.

He shook his head, not wanting to relive any part of that experience.

For all he was still angry at his brother, they were family, and though the intimate knowledge about someone that came from being their family could so easily be used to inflict pain, it could also be snuggled into like a warm blanket.

Sam found he could take solace in their lifelong bond. Dean, for all his foibles, could put on an act to rival some of Hollywood's greatest, if it meant making Sam feel better. No matter what emotions were roiling beneath the surface he would snark, he would joke, he would tease. And it made Sam feel loved.

He divested himself of his sopping clothing before stepping into the shower, feeling worse than ever about smacking Dean. He'd casually ask him about it later, knowing that his brother would brush it off as nothing, but then that wasn't the point. Dean would take it as the apology it was, and that would be that.

The hot water sent euphoric tingles down his spine as it chased away the cold, soothing his earlier ire and restoring his strength.

His life was far from the way he wanted it: Jess was dead, the demon was still out there, his father had disappeared again, he was still angry at Dean. But somehow he could feel hope settling into the shadows of his soul, lightening the darkness.

The tension had abated, the Impala was getting fixed, and they were moving on. For Sam, that was about as good as it got for now.

He was in the process of towelling himself dry when he heard the shrill ring of his cell phone as it echoed through the empty motel room. He quickly wrapped the towel around his waist as he hurried out of the bathroom and snatched up his phone.

He didn't bother to check the caller ID, thinking it was Dean calling to ask him if he wanted lunch brought back.

"Dude, you must have a hollow leg if you're hungry already!" He joked as he answered the call.

Silence.

Then he nearly dropped the phone as a small hesitant voice reached his ears. "Sam? Is that you?"

That voice sparked a chain reaction of memories flashing in front of his eyes, a myriad of images, sounds, smells and emotions assaulting his brain – paralysing him with their potency, their clarity.

For a moment he was back on the lawn at Stanford, a cool evening breeze caressing his face, taking the searing intensity from the sun's rays as it began to set. Around him there was laughter, the ruffling sound of pages being turned, of pens scratching against paper. Beneath him he could feel the slight dampness from the cooling grass below, but the warmth of Jessica's body next to him prevented him from feeling the chill.

He remembered the feeling of being completely at peace with the world.

"J-Jenna?" He choked out, struggling against the emotions that stretched his vocal chords taut and constricted his throat.

"It _is _you! Thank god!" Her voice sounded stronger now, as if she'd used iron strength to force it into line.

"Uh" Sam realised he didn't have the slightest idea what to say to this girl, his mind still reeling from the shock of hearing her voice after all these months. He sat down on his bed with a thud, his legs seemingly having buckled of their own accord. The towel was damp against his skin, but he ignored it.

"Sam I...I didn't know who else to call" Her voice stumbled once more, and Sam heard her breath hitch. She was crying.

In that instant, Sam forgot the intervening months had ever happened. Forgot harsh words spoken in grief at a graveside, forgot his desire for revenge, forgot everything that he'd been through since he'd left Stanford, forgot the marks he bore like scars on the inside.

For now Sam was just a friend. And he was needed.

"Jenna, what's wrong? What's happened?" His voice was soothing, his tone gentle. He'd used it deceptively a thousand times on hunts, his father and brother exploiting it shamelessly in order to get information, but he'd never been able to suppress the empathy he felt for others' pain. He'd been the campus agony aunt for his friends, happily enduring the good-natured ridicule which had resulted from it.

He couldn't help but wonder where the ability had come from. His father and brother hadn't exactly embraced the idea of caring and sharing. Emotions were weaknesses, they had to be buried where they couldn't get in the way.

Maybe it was a kind of rebellion. He'd had no one to truly confide in. Growing up, whenever he'd tried with Dean, he'd gotten sarcasm and girl-jokes for his trouble. Dean had been there when it really mattered, but in more of a stoic you-can-sit-up-front-in-the-Impala-today or you-can-have-the-last-packet-of-M&Ms kind of way. Not that he hadn't appreciated the effort, but he needed to analyse and tinker with his problems, needed to strip them down and explore every component.

"Becca told me – she said you'd know what to do" Sam felt a slight chill slide down his spine at her words.

Had Rebecca told her what he _did_? Had she told her about St. Louis?

The paranoia that had plagued him throughout his time at college rebounded upon him with even greater intensity. He'd always been terrified that his friends would find out his deep, dark family secret; that they'd think he was a freak.

"She said you _know_ about this stuff, that you could help. I don't know what to - I mean, it's crazy! I never knew that you – but I'm desperate Sam! I have to know-

He took a deep breath. "Okay, okay Jenna. Calm down. Tell me what's going on"

Jenna was silent for a few seconds, as if thinking about the words would make them too difficult to say, as if she could only articulate them if she forced them out into an incoherent ramble.

"God Sam. It's Jake. I think you met him, once or twice? H-He's dead" Her voice was stilted, the words coming out in staccato sentences. "He was...he was murdered Sam"

"What?"

"It was last night. They found him this m-morning. He had some s-symbol c-carved on his ch-chest. I don't know what..."

"God Jenna I'm so sorry. That's awful. I'm just – I'm not sure how you think I can help you" Sam kept his voice soft and gentle, as if trying to calm a frightened animal on the verge of bolting.

"The police think it's some _satanic_ thing, but they're stumped. Becca told me how you..._hunt_...things. She told me about St. Louis. It sounded totally crazy, and I thought she was making it all up, but then Jake..."

Sam found himself starting to panic slightly. Exactly how many people had Rebecca told about what he and Dean did? How many people now thought he was nuts? But then he pulled himself together. A man was dead, and here he was worrying about his image.

Sam frowned as he listened to his old friend. So far the only strange thing about this case was the symbol, but without knowing what it was he couldn't possibly have drawn any conclusions about it. Otherwise, it didn't sound like a case that he and Dean could solve. There were all sorts of murders that police _thought_ were motivated by satanic fetishes, most were just serial killers messing with symbols they knew nothing about.

He'd have to tread carefully here. He hadn't heard a word from Jenna since Jessica's funeral. She'd made her feelings pretty clear back then. But now here she was, begging for his help. How was he going to turn her down without widening the rift between them?

"Jenna..." he began. "I'm sorry, I really am. I just don't think there's anything we can do. Dean and I, we deal with the supernatural, things that can't be explained-"

"Sam, explain this. Jake's body...it was completely drained of blood"

_Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know what you think!_


	3. Back in Business

As always, thanks to all those who reviewed! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 3 – ****Back in Business**

Dean Winchester's laugh was as deep and throaty as the Impala's growling engine as he jerked the key in the ignition and revelled in the power that surged through the car and seemed to fuse with his core. The car was so much a part of him it was almost as if he didn't truly know who he was without it.

He'd lost his first tooth in that car, had his first kiss, his first beer; he'd even lost his virginity in that car.

Now there was a fond memory.

Dean revved the accelerator loud enough to cause several passers-by to look over in annoyed surprise, and then slammed the pedal to the floor smiling his first genuine grin in days as the Impala flew forward, tires screeching on the wet asphalt.

He was home.

Even the deluge of rain that the Impala's wipers could barely sweep from the windscreen quickly enough couldn't dampen his new found good mood. Not even the fact that his clothes were sticking to him like an ice-cold wetsuit could dent his enthusiasm.

He reached forward to turn the radio on, and gave another maniacal laugh as AC/DC's _Back in Black _blared suddenly through the speakers. It seemed apt.

His eyes swept the shops and restaurants on either side of the street as he bashed his fists on the steering wheel in time to the beat of the music, searching for a place to grab some lunch.

He knew he could always just stop at the greasy diner he and Sam had grudgingly graced with their presence over the past few days, but he figured Sam would prefer something not coated in for once. If he was being honest with himself, he was still feeling a little guilty for his part in their argument earlier, and thought that maybe his little brother would appreciate a peace offering.

Jeez, when had he turned into the thoughtful one? He'd clearly been hanging around Sam too long.

Nevertheless, he tried to pick somewhere that looked as if they actually followed some sort of hygiene code, opting for a small restaurant boasting a 'Special' burger that was proclaimed as being _the best sandwich in Sandwich!_ Dean snorted, thinking he could have come up with a better slogan in his sleep.

For Sam he ordered some kind of rabbit food that attempted – poorly in Dean's opinion - to disguise itself as a meal. He grimaced at the jumble of greenery in the plastic container, wondering not for the first time where he had gone wrong in Sam's education.

He smiled at the pretty strawberry-blonde waitress behind the counter, unleashing his best come hither expression before realising that she had a rock the size of his fist on her wedding finger. Oh well, he knew when he was beaten.

He paid for the order and left, inhaling the aroma given off by his burger like a dying man gasping for air. He was so ravenous, he wondered if he'd even be able to make it back to the motel before ripping off the wrapping and devouring it.

In the end he opted for what he felt was a reasonable compromise: he ate half.

He was in the process of cramming the other half into his mouth when he opened the motel room door, nearly spitting it straight back out again as he noticed his brother perched on the end of his bed, jacket on, bag packed, face pinched in agitation.

"Jeez Sammy, you got somewhere you need to be? I know Sandwich sucks ass but I think we can take a few minutes to eat somethin' before we go rushing off to nowhere. And I could really use a shower – that is if you actually left any hot water when you were busy making yourself all nice and pretty"

When Sam just gave him a withering look, he added. "I brought lunch" and tossed the container to Sam, who caught it distractedly and stared uncomprehendingly down at it.

"Okay, last time I buy you lunch" Dean muttered, growing slightly concerned at his brother's continued silence. "What's with you?"

Sam sighed, and then drew his back up straight, as if preparing to deliver a blow. In a way, he was.

"We have to go Dean, we have a case" His voice was monotone, and his eyes flew around the room, landing anywhere but on his brother's worried face.

"We do?" Dean's brow creased in confusion. "Last time I checked the whole country was supernaturally challenged"

"It's important" Sam was still avoiding his eyes, and Dean was damned if he was going to let his little brother use his own tactics against him. He sat down on his own bed and swatted Sam's knee with the back of his hand, forcing his gaze upwards.

"You want to tell me what this is about?" Dean was really starting to worry now. "You look like someone stole your last Rolo"

"Dean, I got a call from Jenna McKinley..." His brother sounded pained.

"What, Jessica's old room-mate? So?" Oh hell. This couldn't be good.

"One of her friends has been murdered. She asked for our help. I told her we'd be there by tomorrow night" Sam's expression became suddenly earnest, puppy-dog eyes unleashed like blinding headlights. It was a look Dean had always had trouble refusing, and he sensed that his brother knew this only too well.

But not this time. "What, back to Palo Alto? You've got to be kiddin' me!" There was no way he wanted Sam anywhere near that place.

He could never seem to shake the deep-seated dread that Sam was going to walk out on him without a backward glance, the Burkitsville incident having done little to help matters. He'd deny it to his dying day, but he was more than a little afraid that Sam would be reminded of everything he had given up to go on the road with his big brother. The thought of being alone nagged at him like a thumping headache, and deep down he knew Sam didn't really want to be with him, living this life.

More than that though, he worried for his little brother, about what returning to that place would do to him. He remembered the empty shell Sam had been in the days after Jessica's murder, the harrowing nothingness he'd seen in his eyes. It was a grief that he knew his brother wasn't even close to getting over, and the last thing Dean wanted was for Sam to have to face it before he was ready.

"Why?" Sam snapped, pushing himself angrily to his feet – the container of salad falling forgotten to the floor - and towering threateningly over Dean's seated form.

"Well where do I start Sam? St. Louis ringin' any bells? We don't want to draw any more attention to ourselves!" Dean refused to be intimidated by what appeared to be one of Sam's most popular new strategies, also rising from the bed so that they were standing toe-to-toe.

"She's my _friend_ Dean! And she needs my help!" Dean didn't miss his brother's seemingly deliberate use of the singular pronoun.

"Wait, why does she need _our_ help? How does she know what _our_ kind of help even is?"

Sam scrunched his features and looked away again. "Rebecca told her" He grudgingly admitted.

"She what?" Dean's voice lowered lethally, and he could feel his hands balling into fists for the second time that day.

Sam's nostrils flared in frustration. "She meant well Dean. The guy's death was weird; _our_ kind of weird. That's why she told her, she thought we could help"

"Terrific" Dean spat sarcastically with a disbelieving snort.

"What's your problem Dean? Is it because it's Stanford? Or is it because it's one of _my_ friends, huh?" Sam goaded, chin lifted defiantly.

"Well the last time I went to help one of _your_ friends I ended up being officially buried as a wanted serial killer, so excuse me for not jumping at the chance to do it again!" Dean threw his arms wide in frustration.

Sam clenched his jaw, not denying Dean's point, but clearly not wanting to agree with it either. Then he pulled out the big guns. "Okay, well, you don't have to come Dean. I can handle this one myself, but I _am_ going"

Dean sighed and closed his eyes. The fight seemed to ebb from him like a receding tide and he sank back down again, head cradled in his hands, defeated. "You're not going alone"

There was a pause as Dean collected the thoughts that had scattered when Sam's news had blown in. "Sammy, it's just...are you sure you can handle going back there?"

Sam seemed to realise what he was trying to convey, and he softened his voice so that it contained something akin to grateful understanding. "I'll be fine Dean. I'm not saying it's not going to be hard, but I'll be fine"

Dean rubbed a miserable hand across haggard features. "Somehow I think I'm going to regret this, but okay"

Sam gave a small smile in return. Well, his brother wasn't often one for gloating over his victories. "Thanks. So, do you want to hear about the case?"

"I'm going to have a shower, you can tell me in the car"

* * *

><p>For Sam, Dean's acquiescence came at a price. There was something disjointed about them now, like someone had changed the lock to their relationship and given them back the wrong keys.<p>

Dean had made his feelings perfectly clear about going on this hunt, and Sam knew he had manipulated him into agreeing. Dean knew it too, he could tell, but had unwillingly accepted anyway.

He felt slightly grubby for the way he had gone about it too. He'd known that if he insisted on going back to Palo Alto himself, then Dean's protective instincts would kick in. And they had. You could set your watch by them.

The seemingly endless hours in the car had passed in tense silence, the frigid atmosphere bearing an almost tangible weight down on them. Even the blaring radio seemed dulled by it, as if they were listening to it through solid concrete. Dean didn't speak except to announce rest-stops.

Sam had mostly stared out of the window at the nondescript buildings and farmland that flashed by – a snapshot of Middle America; anything to avoid his brother's clenched jaw and narrowed eyes. He'd tried once or twice to tell Dean about the case, but it had been like talking to a statue for all the attention the older man had paid him.

When Dean had come out of the shower back at the motel, it was as if the hot water had stiffened his resolve; he would go but he didn't have to like it, and indeed was going to make sure Sam knew all about it.

Sam knew he _could_ have abandoned Dean and rushed alone to Jenna's aid in Palo Alto, but he also knew deep down that he'd need his brother's help. Dean might not have had the advantage and streamlining of a college education, but he saw patterns and connections with an insight that few others had. Sam could easily remember the way his brother had spotted the Daeva sigil in the blood spatters they'd found in Chicago.

To the younger man, they'd just seemed random and meaningless, but Dean had seen order amongst the chaos. He snorted softly, thinking there was something ironic about that, since Dean seemed to _cause_ chaos more than anything else, but there was usually method driving it. His brother was rarely rash, unless his family's safety was under threat.

Sam swallowed another guilty thought, not willing to let it intrude upon his mission.

He needed to be in control. He needed to be the one to direct this hunt.

An insidious voice reminded him that Dean had stopped him from pursuing his ultimate path. Their father was off somewhere, tracking the demon, setting traps for it, coming within a whisker of ending it all.

And Sam was stuck chasing run of the mill monsters with Dean.

Well, if he had to be kept away from the front-line, he could at least call the shots for a while. _He_ could be the one dragging _Dean_ across the country for once.

With his manipulation becoming more justified by the second, Sam felt his resentment begin to ignite once more. Dean had no right to try and stop him from going back to Palo Alto. Sam knew he was worried about him, and he did appreciate it, but he also knew that there was more to his brother's reluctance.

The subject of Stanford had always been like holding a red rag to Dean's bull; a powder keg just waiting to explode. Dean could never seem to get over the fact that Sam had wanted to be in Palo Alto more than he had wanted to be with his family. It was one of the gaping divides between them that Sam didn't think would ever truly close. Both were so certain that they were right.

Most of the time they got by fine without it intruding, but sometimes – like just now – it could almost turn them into strangers; the strangers they'd been while Sam had been at college.

Sam had to admit that he felt more than a little apprehensive at the thought of going back to the place where he'd been so blissfully happy. He'd told Dean he'd be fine, but he wondered who exactly he'd been trying to reassure, himself or his brother. The memories he had of his time at Stanford were bitter-sweet at best, and downright agonising at worst.

He knew that seeing the places and people his memories had managed to dull through time and distance would bring all the pain back multiplied one million fold. The week he and Dean had spent in Palo Alto after Jessica's death was hazy - with only snatches of clarity here and there - and he wasn't in a hurry to fill in the blanks.

How was he going to cope with seeing Jessica's face everywhere? How could he walk past the jewellery store where he'd been planning to buy her engagement ring? How could he look up at the apartment they'd shared?

He was only now really realising how much he'd asked of Dean when he'd dragged him back to their old family home.

Nevertheless, he felt responsible for his friends. They'd been his family at Stanford while his father and Dean were off hunting monsters. They'd looked after him, seen him through the highs and lows. They'd accepted him.

But not for who he really was. And he had to remember that.

The Sam they'd known was just a sham, a mirage he'd carefully constructed to hide any hint of the life he'd used to lead. And now the two worlds he'd tried so hard to keep separate were about to collide with sensational force. St. Louis had been bad enough.

He remembered being so afraid that Rebecca would find out the truth about he and Dean that he'd made up some ridiculous story about his brother being a cop, and it had backfired spectacularly. Eventually Rebecca had discovered the secret life he'd been trying to hide with all the sophistication of a chocolate covered child trying to disguise an empty cookie jar.

Well, that part hadn't really been his fault. Poor Rebecca had been tortured by the shapeshifter who'd stolen Dean's appearance, before being kidnapped by it later and forced to watch as it took on _her_ appearance. As far as revelations went, it was pretty impressive.

He couldn't help but brood about how many other people she might have told. He could have called her, but at this point he was starting to irrationally feel that what he didn't know couldn't hurt him. He preferred to believe that no one else had been told, but then, given the reason he and Dean were going to Palo Alto, it was inevitable that they'd find out.

He felt like a quivering mass of fear as he worried about how his friends might react. Would they think he was crazy? Would they want to know him afterwards? And what would happen if they placed their hopes in him and he couldn't help?

And then there was Dean.

He'd kept a fairly low profile during that awful week. Sam had left him to sniff around after the demon while he dealt with all the agonising hoops to be jumped through following a death: the simpering platitudes from people he barely knew; the raw horror of coming face to face with Jessica's parents; choosing music for the funeral; trying to find the words – _any_ words - to say; the unreality of standing at the graveside while the coffin was lowered into the ground.

He'd kept Dean away from his friends, not being able to handle anything other than dealing with his grief.

Now he wondered what they'd make of him. He loved his brother dearly, but Dean could be stomach-churningly embarrassing sometimes. On some level he had to acknowledge that others would consider this perfectly normal, that it was a big brother's prerogative to torment their younger sibling, but then they didn't know Dean.

And they didn't know Sam.

Dean rarely followed conventions, and he could be more than a little antisocial. He'd basically had to make his own way in the world, and he'd never really had anyone to show him the social ropes. He'd made it up as he went along, and while in their world that could be an advantage, in the real world it wouldn't get him far.

He prayed Dean wouldn't do anything stupid.

* * *

><p>They'd driven straight through the night, and Sam had mercifully slept for most of it – though his slumber had been marred by the return of his old nightmares, as if his subconscious was reacting like an EMF meter to their proximity to Palo Alto.<p>

A small part of him felt that he should give Dean a break by offering to drive, but it was out-voted by the majority shareholders of frustration and resentment.

The morning had dawned fresh and clear, the skies seemingly becoming more azure the closer they came to the Golden State, and the Impala's windows had been down for the past few hours as the spring temperatures started to rise.

The Nevada scrub land that had dominated Sam's view out of the side window flew by as the Impala gobbled up the road in front of it. The sun was now beating mercilessly down upon the sparse landscape, making the huddling shrubs look parched and defeated at the onslaught.

Sam knew the feeling. He glanced over at Dean's stiff form. He didn't think he'd seen him so much as blink in the past two hours.

Sam returned his gaze to the view outside just as they whipped past a road sign indicating that they would soon be approaching Winnemucca, meaning that they were now only a few hours away from Palo Alto.

"We'll stop there. Get some food." Sam nearly jumped out his seat at the unexpected announcement.

Dean had apparently come out of hibernation. One hand was rubbing the back of his neck, trying to ease the knotted muscles. Sam bit back a comment about how Dean shouldn't have been sitting hunched for so long, knowing that he'd probably get his head chewed off for his trouble.

"Yeah" Sam murmured. He was eager to get to their destination, but he couldn't deny Dean some sustenance, considering the fact that thus far they'd only stopped briefly for fuel and packaged food. Besides, Sam's own stomach had been making its presence felt for a while now, and he figured a hot lunch would do him good.

They pulled in at a truck-stop just outside of the city with the usual unremarkable diner and gas station. It looked like a million other places they had been before, and Sam had the sudden disorientating sensation that he could have been anywhere in the country.

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop and then eased the door open with a creak, stiffly pulling himself to his feet. Sam followed suit, pausing as he watched his brother stretch out his limbs like a cat after a long snooze.

"You okay?" He found himself asking, almost like a reflex he had no control over.

Dean glanced across the roof of the car, looking as if he was trying to gauge the sincerity of the question.

"Yeah" he replied with a huff of breath, apparently deciding that Sam was being genuine. "You coming?"

Sam followed his brother into the diner, glancing around at the retro interior with surprised interest. It was classic American diner, down to the squeaky red vinyl seats, black and white linoleum floor and chrome edged counter. Maybe this place wasn't so bland after all.

It certainly seemed to have cheered Dean up anyway, if his brother's hungry grin was anything to go by.

Finding a booth wasn't difficult. The place didn't appear to be well populated despite the time of day, with a few loners scattered haphazardly around the room, nobody sitting too close to anyone else. Some were pouring over newspapers, others just stared into their coffee as if it would reveal to them the meaning of life.

They sat at the window, Dean facing the door as he usually did, and in perfect synchronicity the brothers reached forward, picked up their menus and began to peruse the contents.

Sam established very quickly that they had little to offer as far as he was concerned. For Dean, it was as if the menu had been designed for him. Sam smirked fondly as he watched his brother's eyes light up.

"Okay boys, my name's Darla, what can I get ya?" Sam looked up at their waitress, recoiling slightly at her garish appearance. Out of the corner of his eye he was aware of Dean doing the same.

With middle-aged skin slathered in make-up that might have blended in at a circus, and peroxide hair permed to within an inch of it's life, she looked as if she hadn't seen a mirror since the eighties.

She stood, one hip jutting out, gum snapping in her mouth as she chewed.

Dean was watching her bright red lips squirm sickeningly as she worked the gum around her mouth with an almost morbid fascination. "Uh..." he began.

"Coffee" Sam jumped in with a fleeting smile, giving his brother a kick under the table to jolt him awake.

Dean cleared his throat and dragged his gaze upwards to meet eyes that looked as if they were straining to peek out from under eyelids groaning with bright blue eye-shadow and clotted black mascara.

"Black" He qualified.

Darla blew a bubble with her gum as she wrote on her note pad. "Anything to eat?"

Dean seemed to have recovered himself by this point. "I'll take a cheeseburger and fries, sweetheart"

"Oh we're all out of burgers, honey" Darla replied, shrugging her shoulders in a _what are you gonna do?_ Gesture.

Dean frowned, put out. "You're out of..._burgers_?"

Darla continued to chew noisily while Sam tried not snigger at his brother's horrified expression.

"Okay...uh, in that case I'll take the all-day breakfast" Dean tried to recover some aplomb with a forced grin.

"Actually we're fresh out of bacon and eggs too" Darla replied with unapologetic indifference.

Sam couldn't help the smirk that flashed across his face at that.

"You're...? Fine, a hot dog then!" Dean was starting to get frustrated now, Sam could see his brother's fuse getting shorter and shorter as the seconds ticked by.

"Oh I should've said, we ain't got sausages either"

Sam actually had to stick his fist in his mouth to stop a gurgle of laughter from escaping this time. He knew Dean had noticed, and the older man's eyes narrowed as he opened his mouth to retort.

Sam realised he'd have to act before Dean said something that would probably get them both thrown out. "Maybe it would be easier if you told us what you actually_ do_ have" He said tentatively, still struggling to keep his amusement under control.

Dean's face was now so pink that Sam half expected to see steam shooting from his ears.

"Oh well why didn't you say so?" Darla smiled, the bubble gum sticking wetly out between her teeth. "We've got waffles, and I think there's still some fried chicken, and I'm _sure_ I saw Phil putting some fries in"

Dean appeared to have been rendered temporarily speechless.

"Uh, I'll take the waffles and..." Sam gestured at his mute brother. "He'll take the chicken and fries"

"Okey dokey!" Darla gave another snap of gum before whirling around and trotting away.

Sam finally felt safe to let out a squeal of laughter as Dean managed to locate his misplaced voice.

"What kind of place is this?" he grumbled under his breath. "Don't even have _burgers_!"

Sam continued to laugh, enjoying the feeling as it spread a pleasant warmth through his body and thawed the air between the brothers.

"Shut up!" Dean groused, but without any real bite to his tone. "You must be the first _girl_ they've served in a while. I mean..._waffles_?"

By the time Darla returned with their coffee Sam had managed to get himself under control, and Dean seemed to cheer up at the scent of fresh brew.

The elder Winchester took a sip and let out a slow breath as he closed his eyes in ecstasy. "Man that's good!"

Sam busied himself by adding several sugars to his own mug. "Okay, you two want to get a room?"

"Bite me" came Dean's swift response.

"I would, but you're not my type" Sam rebounded, glad to see a grudging smile tugging at his brother's lips as he acknowledged the hit.

Dean cleared his throat, banishing the smile as he got down to business. "Okay. So. Wanna tell me about what we're walkin' into here?"

"Well, Jenna used to go out with this guy called Jake Moretti. I met him once or twice, he was a decent guy. They didn't last long as a couple, but they stayed pretty good friends" Sam began after a deep, steadying breath.

"Sam I don't need to know the guy's life story. Just tell me how he ganked it" Sam frowned at his brother's slightly callous dismissal of the victim's relation to him, of the details that made him a human being and not just a body in a morgue. He couldn't work out if Dean genuinely didn't care, or whether he just didn't like being reminded of Sam's _normal_ life.

Sam opened his mouth to deliver an admonishment, but was prevented by the arrival of their food.

Dean didn't seem too bothered by his meal in the end, although Sam thought the shrivelled chicken looked as if it had all the nutritional value of a wet paper bag, and the fries looked wilted and half-hearted. Though, compared to some of the dubious meals Sam had seen Dean consume with gusto in the past, it was relatively innocuous. His brother really would eat anything, and enjoy it.

His own waffles were better than expected, and he happily drowned them in maple syrup before scooping up a large mouthful.

"Okay, so Jenna didn't say much on the phone, but apparently Jake went missing about two days before his body got pulled out of the river. He had some kind of sigil carved onto his chest"

"So? Could just be some psycho murderer who bought _Sigils for Dummies_ at the book store" Dean argued, several fries sticking out of his full mouth as he spoke.

"Yeah. Except his body was completely drained of blood" Sam countered. "I think your average, run of the mill psycho would have a little bit of trouble with that"

Dean raised an eyebrow. "Okay, so that _is_ a little weird" he admitted, letting his fork rest against his plate as he pondered this new detail.

"What do we know that could do something like that?" Sam murmured, beginning to feel a slight tingle thrum through his body at the scent of a hunt. There were many things he hated about the life they led, but he had to admit that solving mysteries held a compulsion for his mind that school never had.

"Well, _vampires_ don't exist, and it doesn't fit with anything else I can think of. Sounds like it could be some kind of ritual. Blood sacrifice maybe? But we don't know enough yet"

Sam nodded, agreeing in theory.

"It still might not be supernatural" Dean pointed out tentatively. "But...I think it's worth checking out. By the way, why didn't any of this come up in any of your searches?"

Sam ignored the suggestion of there being nothing supernatural involved, because if that was the case then there wasn't much he and Dean could do. And he wasn't about to let his friend down. "Well, Jenna said the police hadn't released the details of the murder"

"How'd she know about it then?"

"She was the one who did the initial ID" Sam murmured sadly, thinking of his friend going through the harrowing experience of standing in a frigid morgue staring down at the bloated and distorted body of a loved one.

"Oh" Dean looked sober too. They'd both seen enough bodies in morgues for the immediacy of the horror to have lost some of it's potency, it was more of a slow burn that lingered for days afterwards, with images that haunted their nightmares.

"Yeah, she's pretty upset"

Both brothers became subdued as they contemplated the case they were about to become embroiled in. They quickly finished their meals in silence and then by tacit agreement got up and headed on their way, with Dean tossing a sarcastic goodbye to Darla as he went. They didn't leave a tip.

_Any thoughts? Please review and let me know! :) Next stop, Palo Alto..._


	4. Amongst Butterflies

Hi all, hope you're continuing to enjoy the story!

I have never been to Palo Alto, so my description is based on internet images. Apologies for any inaccuracies!

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 4 – Amongst Butterflies**

They arrived in Palo Alto late in the evening, as the sun set about it's downward journey to the horizon, painting watercolour streaks of palest pink across the sky that were being slowly overtaken by darkening blues and purples. It might have been called pretty, if Dean Winchester noticed that kind of thing.

Which he didn't.

They crawled through the city, traffic surprisingly heavy for the time of day, giving Dean plenty of time to survey his surroundings. He'd never given much thought to the place when he'd been there in the past with his father, and then to pick up Sam.

If he had to use one word to describe this place it would be leafy. It was lush with trees and vegetation, and in the spring air the scents from baskets of flowers hanging along the walls of the almost Mediterranean-style buildings wafted in through the Impala's open windows.

He wanted to hate it. Really he did. But it was actually kind of pleasant.

The last time he'd been here it had been more autumnal, and many of the trees had shed their loads, looking barren and stark as their branches struck out in all directions, reaching out like bony fingers. He hadn't paid much attention at first though, his only thought being to get in, get Sammy and then get out again.

Then the demon had murdered Jessica.

He'd spent a week there following barely-there leads, for little else but to reassure Sam that they were doing _something_ to catch her killer. He didn't remember much, he'd been so worried about his brother, so consumed with fury at what had been done to him.

Sam had kept him at arm's length for most of that week, checking in with him every so often to see if he had found anything, but otherwise ignoring him. On some level he'd known that Sam needed space, that he had more to deal with than he could even comprehend, but he'd still felt left out. He'd wanted to be at the funeral with Sam, for no other reason than to just _be there_. But Sam had put his foot down, told him he could handle it, and Dean hadn't felt that he had the right to challenge him.

Especially since he was grappling with his own guilt over what had happened.

If he'd just left Sam alone...

The streets of Palo Alto were crowded with preppy students clumped together outside bourgeois bars and restaurants – the kind Dean normally avoided like the plague - happily casting off the day's study like a cumbersome jacket, and Dean found himself picturing Sam in the crowd with those people. It felt wrong.

The innocuousness of it all disturbed him slightly and he reached forward to turn on the radio, needing to assert his presence somehow, the urge to throw a rock into a still pool too much to resist.

Sam however, immediately swatted his hand away, giving him a look that promised death if he tried to put on his music.

"Sammy this is all a little too Dawson's Creek for my likin'. These guys wouldn't know a decent guitar riff if it poked 'em in the eye" On some level Dean knew he was making a play to distract his brother from the obvious pain he was feeling on being back in this town – if Sam's pained features and hunched form were anything to go by - but he also felt oddly out of place here, and was loathe to admit that he needed his music around him like a safety blanket.

Sam sent him a cold glare. _That's it Sammy_, Dean thought. If Sam was pissed at him, then maybe he wouldn't be so internally focused. The elder hunter would happily play punching-bag if it meant that his brother would stop beating _himself_ up.

"Dean, if you turn that thing on I will permanently disown you!" Sam growled, uncurling slightly to shoot his brother another threatening scowl.

_Wouldn't be the first time_, Dean muttered to himself, but reached forward and flicked the radio on anyway, tossing Sam a cheeky grin.

CCR's _Run Through the Jungle_ jolted through the car with a crash that caused several people in the vicinity of the car to turn and stare disdainfully at the Impala and her occupants. Sam's hand darted forward in an attempt to turn it off again, but this time it was Dean whose hand was hovering protectively over the radio.

"Not my fault these people have piss poor taste in music Sammy!"

Dean chuckled as Sam cringed and immediately tried to hide himself by sinking lower in his seat, hampered in his efforts by his ridiculously long legs.

"I'm gonna kill you" Sam groaned as he avoided the snooty glares of the people strolling past.

"Yeah I'm sure you are" Dean knew that his unconcerned tone would irritate his brother even more, and was rewarded with a muttered "friggin' jerk!" from somewhere in the vicinity of Sam's now hidden face.

He smirked and jauntily began tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat, winking at any good looking women who happened to glance in his direction.

They eventually located a suitable motel not far from the Stanford campus, Dean wincing at the cost as he checked them in – everything seemed so damn expensive in this State. The cost notwithstanding, the motel definitely met their usual criteria.

It wasn't as chronically depressing as the one they'd taken refuge in back in Sandwich, but it was certainly making an admirable effort. The murky, claret coloured carpet was scattered with splodges of age-darkened stains that Dean didn't even want to think about, and the vomit coloured wallpaper made Dean feel slightly nauseous, especially coupled with the tan coloured bed covers and curtains.

"Well they've got both orifices covered" Dean quipped as he disdainfully surveyed the room, wrinkling his nose at the vomit-like smell he wasn't quite sure he was imagining.

"What?" Sam quirked a brow as he looked up from where he'd been rifling through his bag.

"Never mind"

"Want to take the first shower?" Sam offered, pulling out his cell phone. "I'm going to give Jenna a call; let her know we're here"

Dean did. One of the few aspects he hated about life on the road was not always being able to wash up properly. The gritty feeling of having been in the same clothes for over twenty-four hours always grated against his skin, and he couldn't wait to feel the soothing fingers of the hot water massaging his tired and aching body.

When he'd finished, he dragged a towel across his head, forcing his short hair into messy tufts. He pulled on fresh clothes, relishing the feeling of clean cotton and denim against his just-dried skin. The rejuvenating effect of the shower made him feel slightly better about the prospect of meeting Sam's friend. Not one mention of it would ever pass his lips, but he was feeling a little nervous.

He could tell Rebecca hadn't liked him, even without the shapeshifter using his form to torture her, and it had bothered him. Normally he shrugged people's opinions off like they were annoying flies to be swatted, but somehow this was different. These were Sam's peers, his little brother respected them, looked for their acceptance.

And if they didn't like him then their views might rub off on Sam.

He opened the bathroom door and bravely padded across the carpet on bare feet, giving Sam a questioning glance as he passed by.

"We're going to meet her in about half an hour over at Pedro's" At Dean's blank look he added. "It's a bar"

"Right" They hadn't been in Palo Alto more than an hour and already Sam was starting to patronise him. Terrific.

* * *

><p>Pedro's wasn't exactly what Dean would have called a bar.<p>

Bars were supposed to be dimly lit, wood-panelled rooms shrouded in wisps of cigarette-smoke, with tables coated in the sticky residue of spilled beer and pool tables huddled secretively in the corner. They were supposed to be filled with men weathered by the passage of time and the harshness of life, and by women in low-cut tops and high hem-lines on the prowl for passing-through prey.

"Sam this isn't a bar, it's like somethin' out of Sex and the City" Dean complained as they arrived outside.

The place hadn't been far from where they were staying, and despite Dean insisting that he wanted to drive, Sam had refused point-blank and laid down the law. They were walking.

Dean hated walking. Dean hated girly 'bars'.

This was going to be a long night.

"You're really going to admit that you've watched that show?" Sam snorted in disbelief, turning a sceptical face towards his brother.

"The clue's in the title, Sammy!" Dean leered, his lips curved into a satisfied smirk.

Sam just shook his head.

Dean's smile faded as soon as Sam looked away. Looking at this place, imagining Sam spending time here, thinking about the life he'd led here, it was making him feel uneasy in a way he couldn't quite define. It was as alien to him as if someone had plucked him from the Earth like a ripe strawberry and plopped him down again to rot on Mars.

He had no frame of reference for this, no footholds to help him negotiate what was likely to be a slippery slope.

Dean followed his brother through the entrance, dismayed to note that it was exactly how he'd pictured it. In the soft blue lighting emanating from the back-lit shelves behind the harsh, unforgiving line of the bar, Dean could see lots of cube-like tables arranged in grid-lock pattern along the straight rectangular room. There were lots of silvers, and light blues, and lilacs, with long delicate-looking lamps hanging down from a ceiling stripped bare to reveal criss-crossing steel beams.

There was some sort of horrendous song bobbing along in the background, barely audible over the sound of conversation and clinking glasses. Dean thought he could detect a whining voice singing about a girl with a broken smile, and tried not to gag at the triteness of it.

The people sitting symmetrically around the tables looked as fresh-faced and untouched by the world as if they had emerged as butterflies after being raised in a protective chrysalis. They were all blonde highlights and pastel coloured shirts. Dean didn't think he could have told any of them apart if his life depended on it.

Sam however, was already waving enthusiastically at a girl who had risen up from her cube almost as soon as they had walked through the door. Dean followed as his brother weaved across the room to reach her, his loping walk reminding Dean of a documentary he'd seen about giraffes on the Discovery Channel.

As they approached the table, Dean could see instantly that there were others there. The group had pushed a few of the cubic tables together so as to have enough room for everyone. He immediately recognised Rebecca Warren, though her hair was considerably shorter now, and a man who looked very much like her brother Zach. There were four others present, a girl with a heart-shaped face framed by raven hair that had been sculpted into a sleek bob, a blonde man with a scruffy surfer-type look, a fresh-faced girl with freckles and sandy corkscrew curls, and an African-American man with a military-style crew cut.

In short, the kind of well-groomed people Dean disliked on first sight.

There was something too wholesome about them, too pristine. These people didn't have the hard edge he had, they'd never seen the horrors life could bring, the things that hid in the shadows.

"Sam!" Jenna reached them first, throwing herself into Sam's arms and clinging to him as if he'd just pulled her from a burning building. "Thank god!"

Dean didn't get a good look at her until she had pulled back from his brother. She had thick auburn hair that dropped poker-straight from her dainty head, and a fringe so long Dean felt certain she ought to be covered in bruises from all the furniture she had to have been tripping over. Blue eyes were tearing up as she gazed up at Sam, lingering on his still-healing cheek, and she certainly did have a long way to look. The younger Winchester utterly dwarfed her petite frame.

Sam stepped back from her and gestured to Dean. "Jenna, this is my brother Dean"

Jenna's eyes raked over him with barely veiled curiosity, and Dean didn't need to be a mind-reader to know exactly what she thought of him: dangerous. He nodded at her and flashed a brief smile, receiving a plastic one in return before she returned her attention to Sam.

"I know you weren't expecting a crowd Sam, but everyone wanted to see you" At Jenna's cue, the group at the table rose to their feet and swarmed towards the younger Winchester.

Dean stepped back to allow them room, not wanting to intrude on their reunion. He caught Rebecca's eye and nodded in recognition, then he suddenly found his hand being grasped in a firm handshake, and glanced up to see Zach Warren standing before him.

"So you're Dean Winchester" he began, smiling warmly. "Great to see you up and around, last I heard you were lying in a cemetery back in St. Louis"

Dean found himself laughing jovially, liking this man despite himself. "Yeah, you might say reports of my death have been a little...exaggerated!"

In the background he was vaguely aware of Sam pointing him out to the others, but he blithely ignored their scrutiny.

"Good to finally meet you!" Zach was continuing, his expression open and guileless. "You guys really saved my bacon, and I feel kind of bad that you ended up taking the fall"

"Don't mention it" Dean brushed off the thanks, uncomfortable with gratitude. "It pretty much comes with the job description"

"Well I got a second chance at life thanks to you. Least I can do is buy you a drink, what'll you have?"

Dean blinked, somehow touched at the genuineness of the offer. "Uh...I'll take a beer thanks"

As Zach departed, the elder Winchester felt a tug on his arm and he was pulled across to stand in front of the others, as if being unveiled as some tawdry game show prize.

"Dean, this is Kate Winters" Sam nervously gestured to the raven-haired catwalk model, who gave a haughty smile in response. "And this is Riley O'Connor" The surfer-dude – as Dean had taken to referring to him in his mind – gave his hand a laid-back shake as he displayed a rack of perfect white teeth.

Sam continued, indicating the freckle-faced girl, who gave him a shy wave which Dean found himself returning awkwardly – _since when did he do that stuff?_ "This is Elena Martin, and..."

The other man stepped forward into Dean's personal space and grasped his hand, giving it a forceful shake. "I'm Luis Jackson" Dean flashed him a closed-mouth smile but refused to step backwards. The two stood eye-to-eye for a brief moment before Luis moved away, Dean smirking at the other man's perceived submission.

He glanced over to the remainder of the group, Kate was eyeing him like a cat stalking its prey. Normally he'd have lapped up the attention, but she was just making him feel uncomfortable. "So we _finally_ get to meet you Dean. You've been something of a mystery figure for a while. Although, after what Jenna told me I can see why"

"Oh really?" Dean plastered the most fake smile he could muster, in the hope that it would fill in the cracks that had suddenly started to appear in his façade. _Mystery figure?_

"Well I _have_ got an image to maintain" He swallowed the sour taste her insinuation had elicited. He'd known Sam had wanted to keep their family business a secret, but he found himself wondering exactly what Sam _had_ told his friends about him.

Sam seemed to notice his discomfiture. "Uh, yeah, well it's not the kind of thing you can just, you know, blurt out"

"I'll say" Surfer-dude agreed, giving Sam a searching look, as if trying to figure out how these two versions of Sam could possibly fit together: the college boy and the _ghost-hunter_.

"Yeah Sam, you sly dog! No wonder you were always so secretive about your life before you came here" Luis cut in, shooting a glance at Dean, who frowned back.

"I _still_ can't believe it" Elena laughed, with a slightly hysterical edge. She was irritating him already. This was going to be a long night – _and hadn't he said that already?_

Ugh.

Sam opened his mouth to respond, but was saved from continuing this line of discussion by the arrival of Zach, who'd brought a drink for him too, evidently having known exactly what to get. Dean eyed the electric blue liquid in Sam's spindly glass and sent him a scathing look.

"Really Sam?" He raised his eyebrows at his brother, who merely shrugged unapologetically back at him.

"Sam used to drink this all the time back in the day" Zach explained, handing Dean a mercifully cool bottle of beer.

"Sam used to _drink_?" Dean quipped, to the accompanying laughter of Zach, Luis and Surfer-dude, and his brother's reddening face. He was satisfied that his effort had covered up any trace of the bitterness he'd felt at finding out that there was much he didn't know about Sam that these strangers apparently did. It was one more notch in the life Sam had carved out for himself.

Sam said nothing in response, and everyone took this as their cue to sit down.

When everyone was settled around the table, Sam turned to Rebecca. "So how come you and Zach ended up back here?"

The blonde looked over at her brother, and briefly flicked her eyes towards Dean. "Well, after...everything that happened in St. Louis, Zach decided to come back here with me when I restarted at school"

"I lost my job. I might have been cleared of...everything" He stumbled slightly, the memory clearly still raw in his mind. "But the damage was already done. I couldn't stay there, so I decided to get a job back here"

Dean felt the eyes of the table fall upon him as the siblings recounted their story. It was blatantly obvious that they _all_ knew the details of what had happened, and he was beginning to feel like the new attraction at the local zoo. It shouldn't have bothered him, but somehow he thought they were all imagining him torturing Rebecca. The girl herself could still hardly look at him, not that he blamed her; it would be _his_ face she would see in her nightmares.

"I still can't get my head around this stuff. I don't know whether to be afraid of what's out there or to worry about your mental state" Jenna piped up, her voice slightly shrill with her heightened emotion. "But I can't explain what happened to Jake"

"How do you think you guys can help?" Luis queried, looking from Sam to Dean, and back to Sam again. "I thought it was supposed to be – and I can't believe I'm saying this – but you guys hunt _ghosts_, right? How can this be a ghost?"

"Well hang on!" Zach cut in. "The thing that killed Em and framed me wasn't a ghost. It was a...what did you call it again?"

"A shapeshifter" Sam supplied, and Dean could tell that his brother was more than a little uncomfortable discussing it. The elder hunter wondered whether Sam had expected so many people to be in on the Winchester family secret.

He'd guess not.

Kate snorted at Sam's words. Finding herself on the receiving end of several glares she relented. "Sorry, it just sounds so Sci-Fi Channel. I mean, I know you guys lived it, but it's just ridiculous. This stuff_ can't_ be real"

"Believe it, sweetheart" Dean blurted before he could stop himself; the girl was starting to piss him off.

Sam punched his thigh under the table in warning.

"Ow!"

"Look, we don't just hunt ghosts. There are lots of other...monsters out there, evil things. This could be something else, we don't know what yet. So Jenna, if you feel up to it, could you tell us more about what happened to Jake?" Sam was in gentle mode now. Dean had seen him draw victims and witnesses under his spell a thousand times, and was more than a little envious of his abilities. Of course, for Sam it was as natural as breathing.

Jenna had been mostly quiet up until now, staring morosely into whatever multi-coloured cocktail she was drinking, swirling it around absently with her straw. She nodded at Sam's question, scrunching her face briefly as if trying to straighten her thoughts.

"Jake he was...god he was so full of life. You know he was a political science major? But he was so passionate about people. We had a rally on campus a few days ago, a protest against human rights abusers, and Jake organised the whole thing. He wanted to go into politics so he could stand up for the vulnerable, the disenfranchised"

_Disenfranchised_, Dean mimicked in his head in a silly child's voice, then cringed internally at his own immaturity.

"I remember he seemed like a great guy" Sam agreed soothingly. "I know this must be so hard for you"

"He was my best friend Sam. To lose Jess...and now Jake..."

Sam's face fell at the mention of his late girlfriend, and Dean felt his heart constrict at the sight.

"When did you last see him?" The elder Winchester took over while Sam composed himself, glancing periodically at his little brother to check that he was okay.

Jenna closed her eyes as she forced the memory to the forefront of her mind. "Uh, after the rally, so that would have been...four nights ago, I guess. It had all gone really well so a group of us had gone out to celebrate. We were out for a few hours but Jake was feeling tired so he went home early. He never made it. He just disappeared"

"What did the police say?" Kate asked, a frown creating a delicate crease in the middle of her flawless forehead.

"Oh they didn't want to know at first, thought he was playing a prank or that he'd needed a break from studying and had just taken off somewhere. I left his description with them anyway, just in case...and then when they found his body, they called me" Jenna's voice began to waver at the memory, her eyes going glassy as if she was reliving the moment there and then.

"And that was yesterday morning?" Dean clarified, trying to keep her focussed. He'd always found it difficult to deal with crying women; could only flail around helplessly while someone else – usually Sam - stepped in and took the reins from his incapable hands.

She nodded, looking as if she didn't trust her voice to hold the weight of her words.

"Have there been any other...victims?" Dean coaxed gently, his gaze boring an intense hole into hers, trying to create some kind of tangible link between them.

Jenna sniffed sharply, as if the rapid intake of air would disperse the emotional fog in her mind. "Two other students were...murdered...in the last couple of weeks. A guy and a girl I think, I don't remember their names. The police aren't giving out details, but they think it's some kind of...satanic cult or something"

"You said they pulled Jake out of the river...?" Sam cut in, having managed to close the door on his own anguish for the time being.

Dean shot him a questioning look. _You okay?_ Receiving Sam's slight nod in return, he returned his gaze to Jenna.

She nodded again, and then continued with a voice as shaky as a newborn foal standing for the first time. "His body...god, it was...it was all..._bloated_...and disfigured. And that horrible..._thing_ on his chest, like someone had taken a carving knife...and his _face_. He looked so scared" The dam had broken and the tears were rolling freely now, weaving disjointed tracks blackened by mascara down her pale cheeks.

Sam immediately moved closer to her and draped an arm across her shoulders, drawing her to him and holding her as she sobbed.

The remainder of the crowd shifted awkwardly and tried not to make eye contact with each other. Jenna's distress was palpable, and Dean wondered if, like himself, the others were trying not to imagine the grotesque picture she had painted. Not that he wouldn't see the real thing anyway when he and Sam got to the morgue, but sometimes fantasy was worse than reality.

Sam's gaze was searching out his brother's, and Dean met it reluctantly. The younger Winchester gave a small grimace, which might have seemed callous, but Dean knew his brother's intentions were entirely the opposite. In that unwritten language they both seemed to instinctively understand – that had seen them through countless dangers and near-death experiences - Sam was calling a halt to the interview. They'd get no more out of her just then, and Sam clearly didn't _want_ to get any more out of her just then.

The poor girl looked as if she could barely comprehend what she'd been through, and she clearly hadn't assimilated it. She'd need time.

Dean understood that. He nodded at Sam in agreement and acknowledged his brother's grateful smile.

Their silent conversation took barely a second, but the others at the table were staring at them with unbridled curiosity, clearly having no idea what had just transpired. Dean almost smiled in possessive pride; he sometimes took for granted how in sync he and Sam were. It was easy to forget how one look, one gesture, one expression could convey so much. It was the almost telepathic connection that came from having spent so long observing and reacting to someone else's behaviour, from having repeatedly put your life in that person's hands and have them put theirs in yours.

But more than that, it came from knowing someone better than you knew yourself. Something a few years at Stanford hadn't been able to change, and he had to remember that.

He watched as Sam began to stroke Jenna's shoulder with a gentle, soothing motion, as if calming a frightened animal. It was the kind of attention that would have had Dean calling him a girl and telling him to man-up, but deep down in that hidden place he'd sooner die than reveal, he secretly envied it. Since his mother had been so savagely ripped from his four year old self, no one had ever treated him like that. He'd never _allowed_ anyone to treat him like that.

"Jenna, I think you should go home and get some rest" Sam murmured softly, glancing around at his friends, looking for an ally.

"Yeah, honey, I'll drive you" Elena leaned forward to squeeze Jenna's limp hand.

Sam had tried many times to care for him, but Dean couldn't and wouldn't let himself go. He needed to be strong. Looking after Sam was _his_ job. It had been since he was that four year old boy on that fateful night, when the small bundle of his baby brother had been frantically shoved into his arms by his distraught father. John Winchester had given him a lifelong contract to sign in that moment, and he was forever bound by it. Willingly.

He'd die before he'd break it.

Apart from hunting, protecting Sam was all he knew how to do...well, other than sex (and he thought he was pretty good at that). Having Sam return the favour seemed wrong on some fundamental level that Dean couldn't fully articulate.

Dean could remember only too well the sickeningly humiliating feeling of bone-deep weakness he'd felt after the electrocution, the unbearable knowledge that he couldn't have fought off a stiff breeze, the agonising realisation that he needed his _kid_ brother to help him up out of a chair. It had traumatised him for a long time after Roy LeGrange had 'healed' him in that tent in Nebraska, and Sam hadn't been able to let him out of his sight for weeks afterwards. It had grated on him.

He didn't know _how_ to be looked after.

Suddenly he felt the weight of several pairs of eyes on him and glanced up from his introspection to find that everyone was looking at him expectantly. Jenna and Elena had apparently already departed.

"Huh?" He grunted stupidly.

He caught Luis sending Kate a smug smirk and his eyes narrowed.

"I was just saying Dean, Sam never talked about what you guys did before he went to college. Bet you've got a few stories to tell!" Zach's smile seemed to banish the spectre of tension like a well timed rocksalt blast, and Dean couldn't help but wonder if the guy was genuinely oblivious to the undercurrents swirling around them or just a damn good actor.

Nevertheless, he was prepared to accept a lifeline when it was offered. And the chance to mortify Sam in front of his friends was too good to pass up, especially when his little brother was shooting desperate, pleading looks at him.

Dean ignored him, took a long swig of beer and then set it down on the cube with a decisive thunk and an almost predatory smile. "Oh, I've got more than a few!"

* * *

><p>"And Sammy had a fear of cats for <em>years <em>after that one!" The elder Winchester teased animatedly, his amused smirk acting as the conductor to the symphony of good-natured laughter generated by the others.

Dean had warmed considerably to this subject, Sam noted ruefully, feeling the heat from his blushing cheeks. The idea of his friends and family comparing notes over him was so unbelievably normal however, that Sam couldn't really bring himself to be mad at his brother for relaying some of his most excruciatingly embarrassing moments, especially since his friends seemed to have the good grace to not be freaked out by them.

So many scenarios had played through his mind on the walk to Pedro's about how badly this could have turned out. He'd fretted that his friends would think he was some sort of lunatic, that they'd be angry at him for all of his lies, that they'd be hostile and judgemental.

Instead, they'd been practically tripping over themselves to greet him. Had told him how much they'd missed him, how glad they were to see him. He'd felt their warmth flow through him like a steaming cup of coffee on a frigid morning.

They'd accepted him. As he truly was. And it was so gratifying.

No more lies. No more masks.

He hadn't expected to slip back into Stanford life like a comfortable pair of slippers. Sitting around the table at the bar he and his friends had once haunted like the spirits he and Dean banished almost made Sam feel like he had never been away, that all the months he'd spent with his brother had never happened.

"Man, that explains so much!" Riley snickered, his perfect teeth glinting in the bluish light as he smiled. "Remember that time Sam totally freaked out when Jess let that Wallace lady's cat into their apartment? Oh man, you squealed at some frequency only dogs could hear!"

Sam found himself laughing at the memory, though painful spikes of loss at the mention of his late girlfriend were digging into his soul like spurs. "Yeah, that was so I could call some dogs to chase the friggin' thing away!"

Being here with his friends was like a soothing balm. He'd been completely unprepared for the searing agony he'd felt while Dean had guided the Impala through the streets he'd once known like the back of his hand. Every brick, every pane of glass, every tree branch felt as if it had absorbed Jessica's image - her essence - only to project it outwards again like some twisted hologram when he passed by. It had been so unbearable that he'd been on the verge of breaking down and begging his brother to turn the car around and get them the hell out of there, but then Dean had started his 'embarrassing older brother' routine and snapped him out of it. Dean always seemed to know what to do.

Dean, who was at this moment roaring with laughter at his expense.

He couldn't quite wrap his head around his brother's presence in this world. It seemed wrong somehow, given how hard he'd tried to make this life his own, how hard he'd tried to block out his family. Yet Dean was occupying this space like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Sam found himself almost resenting it, like his brother had broken through the last bastion of control he had kept for himself.

But Dean was trying. He really _was_ making an effort, and Sam had to acknowledge that, especially given the fact that the older man had made no secret of his distaste for Sam's college life and all that it had entailed.

"That old lady was crazy anyway" Luis piped up, giving Sam a sly glance. "Though I think I remember her having a bit of a soft spot for you Sam!"

"Yeah, Jess definitely had some competition there!" Rebecca joined in, eyes bright with amusement.

"It's the puppy-dog eyes, gets them every time" Zach punched Sam lightly on the arm. It was such a Dean gesture that the younger Winchester nearly stamped on his brother's foot in retaliation.

Instead he just shook his head with mock weariness, a small smile giving away his nostalgia. He remembered the older woman only too well, and her somewhat disconcerting crush on him. He'd lost count of the number of times there been a tap-tap-tap on the door, usually when he and Jess were about to spend 'quality time' together. Once he'd opened the door shirtless and the poor dear had nearly had a fit.

There was always some job she'd needed help with, something that required a 'tall young man', or a 'strong young man', or a 'smart young man'. He'd helped her every time even though he'd known it was usually an excuse for her to squeeze his bicep or slap his ass. It was hard-wired within him to help the damsel in distress – however old and randy she happened to be.

He glanced at Dean, hoping to catch his eye and share the joke with him, but he was jolted back to earth at the suddenly subdued expression on his brother's face. Dean sat staring intently at his empty beer bottle as if it had unimaginable wisdom to impart, fingers worrying at the label, peeling it from the glass.

He frowned, wondering at the change in his brother's demeanour.

"Exactly!" Luis nodded enthusiastically, waving his arms madly to emphasise his point. "Like Professor Lang! All those 'extra tuition' sessions you kept having with her? We were starting to wonder Sam!"

Sam rolled his eyes at his friend's exaggeration. "Man, it was so not like that! She was lonely, and she liked talking about sociological norms in polycentric societies. I got so much background for my assignment"

"Yeah, Sam, _that's_ why you got an 'A'. Because you _learned_ from her!" Riley winked, and high-fived Luis.

Sam guffawed heartily, feeling every muscle relax as his body sagged back against his chair. He'd forgotten what it was like to really laugh like this, to hold nothing back. Briefly he felt Dean's eyes on him, but when he looked up his brother's gaze had re-attached itself to the beer bottle.

"Yeah, well, better that than pulling all-nighters like you. Did you even _get_ any sleep in Freshman year?" Sam retorted.

"Well it wasn't exactly high on my list of priorities Sam! I lost count of how many parties I tried to get you to go to, but no dice. Guess I kind of understand now, I mean, the life you led before coming here. Must have seemed like such a luxury to have some quiet time" Riley continued, sobering slightly as he considered his friend.

Sam, as ever attuned to his brother's movements, immediately noticed Dean going rigid at Riley's thoughtless comment. A little worried that Dean would end up saying something they'd both regret, he scanned his brother's features. Disconcertingly, the elder Winchester's face remained impassive, his eyes – normally the litmus test for Dean's emotions – blank and sterile. Nevertheless, Sam knew he had his brother's full and undivided attention as he waited with bated breath for his answer.

"Uh, yeah" He replied hesitantly, agreeing but not wanting to parade it in front of Dean. "I guess"

There was an uncomfortable silence as the rest of the table contemplated this, their eyes shifting from Sam to Dean as if watching an epic tennis match.

Zach, as ever, dived in to diffuse the awkwardness. He'd always been the peacemaker of their group, seeming to possess some innate ability to restore equilibrium from chaos. "Dean, you've been sitting with an empty for ages, want another?"

Dean blinked and cleared his throat, seeming to waken from his reverie. "Uh no, thanks, we should probably get going. I'm pretty beat, and we should get an early start"

Sam raised his eyebrows questioningly at his brother. Dean wanting to turn in early? That was...unusual to say the least. Admittedly, he remembered with a guilty squirm, his brother _had_ driven all the way from Illinois - at Sam's request - with no sleep. Still, it was a little unexpected.

He remembered Dean's earlier subdued behaviour and wondered if he should worry. "You okay?" He asked quietly.

Dean shot him a strange look, brimming with some emotion Sam couldn't define but that made his throat tighten painfully. "Yeah, just tired. You comin'?"

Torn, Sam looked back at his friends, feeling their almost intoxicating pull. He was feeling relaxed and lethargic from alcohol and laughter, and the promise of exchanging more stories was more than he could resist. He really didn't want to leave. Dean would be okay. He'd go back to the motel and he'd sleep off whatever melancholy mood he'd found himself in.

"Uh, no" He replied, glancing back to his brother as Dean got to his feet. "I'm going to stay for a bit"

"Cool!" Luis grinned as the others expressed similar sentiments.

A brief flicker of something like desolation crossed Dean's face so quickly Sam was sure he'd imagined it. "Right" The elder hunter replied, nodding absently before giving one of his closed-mouth smiles. "Just make sure you don't drink too much Sammy, I know how well you handle your liquor, and I ain't cleanin' up after you!"

Sam merely snorted in response, knowing Dean was covering something up, but realising he'd have to let it go for now. "Catch you later" He called after Dean had tossed back a general goodbye to the rest of their group. Dean raised a hand in acknowledgement as he walked from the table, and soon his retreating form was swallowed by the mass of bodies by the door.

Heaving a huge sigh, Sam realised he was actually relieved that Dean had left. He could never turn off his little brother radar when Dean was around him, leaving him always hyper-aware of what his brother might have been thinking and feeling. As relaxed as he had felt, there was a small part of him that had been monitoring Dean, sensing his discomfort. As had been the case for many years, their moods often bled onto one another, like an infectious contagion surging past an immune system weakened by all the time they'd spent together.

But this time Sam wasn't prepared to let Dean's mood impinge upon his. He _needed_ this. After all those months of withdrawal, of craziness and pain, he craved a hit of normality. He knew the high would be brief and that the come down would be paralysing, knew ultimately that the job he had to do would forever be a barrier to enjoying moments like this until it was done. Nonetheless, he wanted to savour it while it lasted, until the madness encroached once more.

He squashed the tendril of guilt that escaped his tight emotional hold as he thought about his brother returning to the motel, tired and alone, on a hunt he was only sceptically enduring because Sam had dragged him there.

Dean could handle himself.

The problem was, Dean could handle himself in almost every way apart from his emotions. He didn't _handle_ them, he merely locked them in a box somewhere in his mind and wrapped them several times over in chains. He rarely unlocked them even when Sam pestered and wheedled and unleashed the infamous puppy-dog eyes.

Sam was coming to understand that his brother was much more complex than he'd ever thought before. Going from the child-like hero worship of his younger years to the rebellious resentment of his adolescence he felt like he had unfairly pigeon-holed his brother with an inept simplicity he was only just beginning to recognise.

With a flash of sickening regret he remembered wielding the - thankfully unloaded - gun at Dean during that dreadful asylum hunt, after tauntingly telling his brother that he didn't have a mind of his own, that he was pathetic. The words may have been coated in a residual layer of truth from teenage years spent begrudging the fact that Dean would blindly follow their father's instructions, would always take his father's side; but he'd been wrong that time. He really _hadn't_ meant them.

He remembered the feeling of irrationally uncontrollable fury as he'd pulled the trigger on his own brother, an experience that had terrified him for weeks afterwards; his dreams haunted by the resigned expression on Dean's face as he'd uttered those words: _you really hate me that much? _

No, of course he didn't hate him. Could _never_ hate him.

The problem was that he was beginning to feel more and more that he and Dean were on separate pages. Then there was still the anger at his brother that he'd been quietly stoking for days, making sure the flame didn't sputter and die. Anger kept him going, kept him strong; it was his armour.

But for now he just wanted to luxuriate in his happy memories, to be reminded that the life he loved was still waiting for him.

"Is Dean okay?" Rebecca asked tentatively, cutting through his ruminations. "He seems different to how he was in St. Louis"

Sam looked at her sharply, wondering if she'd noticed something he hadn't.

"He's fine. It's been a tough few months is all" He answered vaguely, thinking of Chicago, Nebraska, Indiana...the many places they'd been and the different forms of hell they'd endured.

"He's...not what I expected" Kate spoke up. Sam frowned at her, she'd been silent so long he'd almost forgotten she was there.

"Yeah, I remember you said once that you guys weren't exactly the Bradys" Luis agreed, with a regretful smile. "I get that"

"Are you happy doing what you're doing Sam?" Riley was looking at him intensely.

Sam was touched that his friends still seemed to care so much about him, but he felt himself begin to bristle at what they were implying about his brother.

"No, I'm not happy" he admitted. "But Dean...he means well. We have our moments, but...you know...he's my brother. He's helping me deal right now" Sam's tone was laden with a finality that he hoped would dissuade his friends from continuing their line of questioning. He didn't want to talk about his family, or about hunting. He just wanted to pretend he was back at college, living the life that had turned from reality into fantasy.

Taking a large gulp of air he gathered the strength to pull himself together and then huffed out a breath. "So...haven't heard from Brady in a while. How's he doing?"

* * *

><p>Dean sighed as he opened the door to the empty motel room, the slight buzz he'd felt from the beer had long since worn off and he wanted nothing more than to collapse onto his bed and sleep for a week. But the sight of Sam's empty bed seemed to poke straight through the hole in his heart, the one that had been torn asunder the night Sam had left for college, and which had taken all of those months together to slowly draw closed; the one that had started to gradually re-open all evening as he'd listened to the stories from his younger brother's time at Stanford.<p>

The tales painted for him the picture of the life his brother had led without him; the _happy_ life Sam had lived without his family. More than that, Dean had been watching his brother closely in that moment, hadn't seen him laugh like that in a long time, years in fact. He saw clearly the life his brother wanted, the reason he'd chosen it over his family, the reason he'd choose it again once the demon was gone.

And he'd realised, _really_ realised, that Sam would leave him again. That he'd end up alone.

Dean sighed again, knowing he was in for another sleepless night.

_Come on, what the hell is wrong with you?_ He chastised himself in a voice which sounded uncannily like his father's. He was on a case, there wasn't time for moping around in self-pity like a moody teenager. He wasn't about to start wearing black and sitting around writing poetry to a Radiohead soundtrack.

If he couldn't sleep then he'd get a head start on the hunt. Besides, the sooner he could establish that this wasn't one of their kind of gigs the sooner he and Sam could get the hell away from this place.

Grumbling to himself about having to do all the work on a case that _Sam_ had insisted they do, he cast aside his jacket and plopped down in front of the laptop. "Geekboy's not the only one who can do research" he muttered to himself out loud, as he booted the computer up.

He rubbed tired eyes as the light generated by the computer screen seemed to jab at his brain painfully. Knowing from experience that the laptop would take a while to load he decided to make himself a cup of coffee to blow away the cobwebs clogging up his mind.

He had time to splash water on his face, brew his coffee and take several tentative sips of the scalding liquid before the internet search screen had finally loaded. A quick glance through the local news sites yielded the bare bones of the skeleton of information he was trying to flesh out.

The first victim was apparently an eighteen year old female freshman named Annabeth Carlson, last seen at a campus party approximately two weeks ago. No one remembered seeing her leave. She'd been found naked in an alleyway in Downtown North Palo Alto around thirty-one hours later when a delivery van driver had stumbled across her body in the early morning. Described as a model student and principled citizen, the news article reported that she was a vociferous campaigner for sexual abstinence, and had apparently founded a campus chastity club.

Dean shook his head in disbelief, unable to comprehend why anyone would want to do something like that. Clearly only people who'd never lost their virginity were capable of being abstinent – if they knew what they were missing then they'd never be so holier than thou. The elder Winchester smirked as he thought he could probably teach these girls a thing or two, given half the chance. But really, he preferred more experienced women.

Pulling his mind from the proverbial gutter and back to the picture of the undeniably pretty and angelic face of blonde, blue-eyed Annabeth Carlson, Dean forced himself to remember that this was a young girl who had been brutally murdered. He felt his hands curl into fists. Their kind of gig or not, this was one sick sonofabitch.

Taking another sip of coffee, he moved onto the second victim, a nineteen year old sophomore called Gerry McCafferty. Details were more sketchy surrounding his disappearance. The news article implied he was something of a loner, who didn't participate much in campus activities and didn't seem to have many friends. The last time he'd been seen was in class. Like Annabeth before him, he'd been found within forty-eight hours of going missing – this time in a dumpster behind a diner in East Palo Alto.

He continued with a cursory search of other local websites, but there was no new information. The police were evidently keeping a tight leash on what the media was being told. He'd get nothing else on that tonight.

Moving on from that line of thought he decided to do a general search of any mysterious deaths on campus, but aside from a few exam-related suicides, there was nothing to suggest the presence of a vengeful spirit. Neither did he find any evidence of previous patterns in the area, or indeed anything that remotely connected with the murders.

Not the most encouraging start, but at least the number of reasons why this wasn't one of their cases was starting to accrue.

Shutting down the laptop with a decisive click he pondered the next step. He and Sam would definitely need to visit the morgue to see Jake's body. Seeing the symbol had to be their top priority. They were effectively blind until they had that.

Talking to the victims' friends was also something he wanted to do. His mind flicked through their usual cover stories as if he was holding his stack of fake ID's in front of his eyes. Police and FBI were risky. Palo Alto was no backwater town and Dean didn't want to draw too much attention to them, especially given the somewhat inconvenient fact that he was now a deceased wanted serial killer. He grimaced at the thought.

Maybe they could pass as campus counsellors to interview the victims' friends, but he was pretty sure they'd need FBI covers to get into the morgue. He could spin some story about there having been other similar murders across the country, blah, blah, blah. All they needed to do was get in, see the symbol, and get out.

Simple.

He glanced at his watch. It was now approaching two in the morning, and his eyes were so tired that they were starting to blur, every blink feeling like he was lifting a ton worth of eyelid. He really ought to go to bed.

Sending Sam's empty bed another forlorn look he fumbled with his clothing before crawling onto his bed. He reached up to slide his knife under his pillow before slumping forward and sending the world packing as sleep finally claimed him.

_This ended up being much longer than I expected...anyway, please review...just so I know you'd like me to keep going! _


	5. Play with Fire

Being on holiday from work means more time to write fanfic...so here's a wee mid-week update!

Thanks for the reviews guys, it means a lot! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 5 – Play with Fire**

Sam Winchester was halfway on his journey from Pedro's to the motel when the realisation fully hit him that he was utterly and completely smashed. He'd tipsily tottered from the bar, ignoring the offers of his friends to either walk him or drive him. "I'm fine", he'd insistently slurred, nearly pitching head-first into the small fountain providing the burbling centrepiece to the piazza-like square that Pedro's called home.

He'd good-naturedly allowed Zach to take his arm and help him into a standing position, and then had promptly wandered off without a backwards glance. He hadn't counted on the older man following him, apparently too worried to let him make his own way.

The small part of Sam that was sober enough to realise how drunk he really was had sparked the fire of shame currently roaring in the pit of his stomach. He'd never allowed himself to become so out of control when he'd lived here, one of the more welcome remnants of his father's training, and he was mortified that he'd become so intoxicated in front of his friends. Especially in front of Zach, a man whom he'd come to view as surrogate brother in Dean's absence.

"You all right man? You're looking a little green around the gills!" Zach teased, the light-heartedness of the words belied by the concern in his eyes.

Sam pressed a hand to his stomach. Nausea had taken up residence a little while ago, and wasn't showing any signs of vacating the premises in the near future.

Sam merely groaned in response and grasped his friend's shoulder. "Why'd you let me drink so much?"

Zach gave a wry chuckle. "Yeah, Dean was right about that one, you really are bad at holding your liquor"

Sam snorted, a little distracted by the effort he had to put into being able to walk in a straight line.

"I guess we weren't sure if it wasn't just another way you'd changed" Zach continued, his voice turning serious.

Sam paused from the task of placing one foot in front of the other. "What do you mean?" He asked, screwing up his face as he attempted to concentrate on the conversation.

"Sam, you're like a different person. You might not have noticed it yourself, but it was obvious the second you walked into that bar – and those scratches on your face...After what Becca told me about St. Louis, I guess we just wondered if Dean..." Zach hesitated, clearly unsure how to complete his line of thought.

"Wondered if Dean what?" Sam had been oblivious to the dangerous turn his tone had taken, but when Zach took a defensive step backwards he realised how edgy he must have sounded.

"Nothing" Zach hastily backtracked. "Just wondered what influence he'd had I guess. Don't get me wrong, I like the guy, and he took the fall for all those murders...Emily's..."

Sam started walking again. He'd known this would come up eventually. Sourly he supposed it was a credit to his acting skills. "Look Zach, I haven't changed because I've been road-tripping with my brother...this is the way I always was – well, apart from the drinking. I never wanted to lie to you guys, but there was so much I had to keep covered up"

"Okay" Zach agreed, spreading his hands placatingly in a supplicant gesture, as if Sam was a wild horse about to bolt. "I just want you to know, we're still your friends and we're still here for you"

Sam smiled shyly, he'd forgotten how fond Zach was of Dean's hated 'chick-flick moments'. "Thanks" he murmured gratefully. "That means a lot"

Their conversation had taken them as far as the motel parking lot, and Sam could see the Impala sitting outside their darkened room like a faithful guard dog, gleaming as it basked in the glow of a nearby street lamp.

"Looks like Dean's asleep" Sam noted, feeling relieved that his brother wasn't awake to witness what would no doubt be a graceful entrance on jelly legs.

"You guys really getting on okay?" Zach asked tentatively, as if remembering Sam's earlier reaction.

Sam whipped his head around to examine Zach's features and nearly ended up sprawled on the ground at the sudden movement. "Yeah" he replied quickly, wondering which of them he was trying to convince.

"All right man, I'll let you get inside. You've got a hell of a lot to sleep off" Zach slapped Sam across the shoulder, nearly sending him reeling into a nearby lamp-post. "Sorry" he chuckled, seeing Sam's ungainly stumble.

Sam grasped the post, hating his need to use it for keeping himself upright. "Yeah, yeah" he grumbled.

"Let us know if you guys need anything" Zach offered as he backed away. "We're happy to help out"

Sam nodded absently, his blurring thoughts turning vaguely towards the idea of sleep, and even the lumpy bed he knew was waiting for him inside seemed like the most beautiful prospect in the world. He tossed Zach a languid wave and then weaved across the parking lot.

His limbs felt leaden and pleasantly relaxed, and though the nausea had tightened into a rubber ball in his stomach, he was happier than he'd been in months. He knew he was riding the high from alcohol and the company of friends, and that in the morning he'd be cursing the day he'd been born – and in all likelihood Dean would be too – from the hangover which waited for him like a salivating reaper.

But right at that moment he didn't care. It had been worth it.

Reaching the door he fumbled with his room key, struggling to locate the keyhole in the dim light afforded to him by the flickering light bulb overhead, and then attempting to insert the key upside down before it slipped out of his grasp and tumbled irritatingly to the floor with a metallic clatter.

"Damn it!" he exclaimed loudly, thinking he was whispering; alcohol having dimmed his awareness of how loud his voice rang out in the night air.

He nearly toppled over as he bent to retrieve the offending article. God he'd never been so drunk, even on that night Dean had proudly taken him out for his first real beer, and that one had been carnage.

He was suddenly struck by the unexpected realisation that it was Dean who'd been there for most of his firsts. He'd been with him for his first day at school, had coached him on how to impress his first girlfriend, had helped him to shave for the first time, had given him his first driving lesson. Of course, he'd also handed him his first gun, set up his first salt-and-burn, and provided him with his first fake ID.

He couldn't have said why the thought entered his head, but it seemed to resonate profoundly within him like the deep rumble of a bass string. Dean had been the bedrock of his childhood and teenage years, mother and father rolled into one, and Sam couldn't remember him ever complaining about it.

He almost felt his earlier anger begin to ease, like bricks crumbling from a mouldy wall, but then the defensive battalion in his mind rushed forward to begin cementing it again. He needed his anger, couldn't afford to let it go. Anger had carried him all the way to Stanford four years ago, had kept him away from danger, and from his family. It was an old friend, always there for him, always willing to back him up. And ultimately it would be anger that helped him to take his revenge.

Unlocking the door took an age with fumbling fingers, but eventually he managed, lurching into the room with all the grace of a falling sack of potatoes.

He could vaguely make-out his brother's huddled form on the bed nearest the doorway, body held tense as his breath came in stutters.

Concerned that Dean was having a nightmare, Sam moved towards him, forgetting the heavy dose of klutziness he had imbibed along with the liquor. His foot caught the leg of one of the chairs and sent it flying sideways against the table-top, where his precious laptop was happily ensconced. Even with his delayed reactions he could tell the computer was about to take flight.

Diving across the room with a finesse he would surely be boasting to his grandkids about years into the future, his scrabbling fingers closed around the smooth surface of his computer inches before it slammed to the floor. He let out an "Ooof" as his nauseous stomach rebounded off the floor, and it took every neuron in his brain to stop him vomiting there and then.

"Sammy?" A sleepy mumble emanated from somewhere in the region of his brother's rigid form.

The younger Winchester took a deep breath before forcing his groaning muscles into a seated position, noting with chagrin that after his burst of elegance he was now moving like an elderly man. "Yeah Dean, it's me, go back to sleep"

"'Kay" came the muffled response as Dean shuffled around on the bed and let his body go limp, his breathing easing into a deep, slow rhythm.

Sam found himself smiling fondly over at his brother. It never ceased to amaze him how childlike Dean was when he was asleep, as if the evils and dangers of the world had never touched him, and it roused in him a protectiveness so vast it's edges and limits were unknown to him. It was a sensation he hadn't been used to before he and Dean had started hunting together again. It was something primal, frightening in it's intensity.

When the brothers were growing up Dean had always been the protector, the person Sam looked to for everything; from wiping the blood off a grazed knee, to being the bulwark between himself and his father. But ever since Dean's standing as the immortal and untouchable rock Sam could always rely on had been ruined by an electric shock in a dank basement, he'd felt solely responsible for his big brother. He'd realised for the first time that Dean could actually die, that Dean could actually be taken away from him, and it had awakened this unbreakable resolve in him. It was his job to look out for him, to keep him safe, to keep him alive.

_I'm going to die, and you can't stop it_.

_Watch me._

It didn't mean he had to agree with everything that Dean said and did, but Sam knew that when it came down to it, he'd lay down his life for his big brother without a second thought.

It was only when his head started to fall forward with exhaustion that Sam remembered he was still seated on the floor clutching his laptop. With a self-deprecating snort he clambered to his feet, pleased to note that the feeling of drunken clumsiness had abated. He gently placed the laptop back on the table, righted the fallen chair and crawled onto his bed without bothering to change his clothes.

Oblivion didn't take long to arrive, and when it did, he welcomed it with open arms.

* * *

><p>Sam wished the workmen would stop; the incessant drumming of the pneumatic drill as it pounded the asphalt was making him want to claw his brains out. All he managed was a pitiful moan, made all the more pathetic at the realisation that in fact, there were no jackhammering workmen, the racket was coming from inside his own head.<p>

He groaned again, eyes squeezed shut to ward off any slivers of light that might slip through to his retinas, hoping that Dean would get the message and take pity on him.

But there was nothing.

Sam could barely focus through the fracas going on in his head, but he was cognisant enough to come to the conclusion that the room was empty. He couldn't sense his brother's presence anywhere.

That awareness was enough to force him up to a sitting position, the motion jarring his head sickeningly and making him feel as if it was about to topple from atop his neck. He brought a shaking hand to his forehead, steadying it and reassuring himself that it wasn't going anywhere. The contents of his stomach were another story however, and he pushed aside the covers that Dean must have draped over him at some point and hurriedly lurched to the bathroom to begin that infamous hangover ritual of bowing to the porcelain god.

Once his stomach had emptied itself he wiped his face with a wet towel and slumped back against the tiled wall, relishing the feeling of coolness against the back of his neck. There was still no sign of Dean, and Sam could feel a wisp of worry wafting through the chinks in his armour. He took a quick drink of water to clear his mouth and down some painkillers, and then staggered out of the bathroom.

Despite Dean having evidently left the curtains closed for him, there was enough light seeping through to tell the younger Winchester that it was late morning, maybe even early afternoon. He'd slept a while. Too long.

Casting his eyes distractedly around the room he felt relief soak through him when he noticed the brown paper bag sitting on the table next to a small scrap of paper bearing his brother's incongruously neat handwriting. Easing gingerly over to the table he picked up the bag and cautiously peeked inside. It was a toss up in Sam's mind as to whether Dean would have left him something disgusting to teach him a lesson for stumbling home drunk or whether he would have left him a...

Breakfast sandwich.

Sam smiled affectionately, the aroma of the – admittedly cold - roll collecting in his empty stomach and sending a jolt of ravenous hunger growling through his body. Dean tried so hard to project an image of manly indifference, but he didn't realise how much of a mother hen he really was. Sam would take pleasure in reminding him of that later.

With his brother's note grasped in one hand and the roll in the other, Sam silently weighed his options. His stomach suddenly let out a throaty rumble, making the decision for him. He pulled the thick bap out of it's wrappings and took a hearty bite, savouring the greasy mixture of flavours as he finally turned his attention to his brother's message.

Casting his eyes over Dean's surprisingly neat script he nearly choked on his mouthful of food. Sputtering frustratedly, he crushed the piece of paper and flung it across the room where it ricocheted off the vomit coloured wall and bounced mockingly down onto Dean's rumpled bed.

Dean had gone off to investigate without him. Had left him behind like an errant child.

He glanced down at the roll still gripped in his hand, suddenly not hungry as a discontented bitterness assaulted his taste buds, as if the foodstuff itself had come to represent his brother's coddling. But more than that, it was Dean's way of expressing his disapproval.

In his usual stubborn, bull-headed manner he'd decided to undercut Sam's role in this case. The case _Sam_ had been asked to help out with. This was _his_ gig, and Dean was taking over as usual.

Somewhere at the back of his mind an irritatingly reasonable voice was trying to convince him that _he_ had been the one slacking off, that _he_ had gone and gotten himself drunk on a case; something neither of them ever did because of it's incapacitating effect. It was telling him that he hadn't been in a fit state to interview the friends of the other victims; even with the painkillers taking effect his head had gleefully started composing a new symphony involving several timpani drums and a platoon of cymbals.

Not to mention the fact that he should have been pleased that Dean had taken enough of an interest in this case to actually get a head start on the legwork.

The voice was almost achingly fair and judicious, but it's soft-spoken message was shouted down by the more tempestuous and loud-mouthed voice of outrage, and it was the latter which took poll position in his mind. Dean should have waited for him, should have let him take the lead for once. He was always taking control, and Sam was reduced to running along after him like an earnest toddler, tugging on his shirt sleeve to get his attention.

A scraping noise outside caused Sam to look up sharply as the object of his ire pushed open the door and sauntered inside. He raised his eyebrows slightly at the sight of Sam sitting in the darkened room, barely touched sandwich lying discarded on the table.

He whistled teasingly. "Must've been some night! Who'da thought _your_ friends would be a bunch of party animals? I've never seen that sandwich fail before"

"Where have you been?" Sam snapped, wanting to wipe the cocky grin off his brother's face.

He succeeded.

Features drawing into a confused frown, Dean took a step closer. "Didn't you get my note? Or are you so hungover that you couldn't read it?"

"Oh, I got it" Sam retorted with an air of false calm, looking pointedly at his brother's bed and the scrunched up piece of paper lying atop it.

Dean's eyes narrowed as he followed his brother's gaze. "Okay, hissy fit duly noted, but you're goin' to have to give me a little more to go on than that"

"You're trying to leave me out of this hunt Dean. Just 'cause you don't like being here, just 'cause you don't like me helping out my friends!" Sam exploded, forgetting the rhumba being danced inside his head as he pushed himself to his feet.

Taken aback by his brother's hostility, Dean's expression was almost comical. "What?" He squeaked. "I think you left _yourself_ out of this one Sammy. I mean, did I imagine your little swan dive last night? Huh? Or the fact that you passed out on the bed fully clothed? We're workin' a case here Sam. It's a sad day when _I_ become the responsible one"

Sam ignored his brother's more than accurate summing up of the situation, batting aside the embarrassment which had flared up at the mention of the laptop incident the previous night. "You're just annoyed that _I_ dragged you across the country for once. You can't handle not being in control"

"Sam that's a lot of crap and you know it" Dean's face was slowly reddening as Sam's barbs began to strike. "I'm just tryin' to work on the case that _you_ insisted we look into. Don't you even want to know what I found?"

Sam suddenly found that the laser beam of anger that he had been concentrating on his brother had been neatly deflected by the mirror of interest that Dean's words had piqued. Damn it, he did want to know, but he really didn't want to give Dean the satisfaction.

He remained silent, his expression stony.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'" Dean smirked, but the expression held no warmth. He moved to the windows and threw open the curtains, sniggering as Sam cringed under the onslaught of sunlight like a spitting vampire.

"The first victim was a freshman, one Annabeth Carlson, died about twelve days ago. She was found in an alleyway thirty-one hours after she went missin'. I spoke to her former room mate Christy this mornin'" Dean gave a low suggestive whistle and sent Sam an appreciative grin, to which the latter merely shook his head in response.

"They were at some party on the night she disappeared. She remembers seein' her leave, but she was a little tipsy and can't remember what time it was. But here's the interestin' part, apparently there were signs that Annabeth went back to their room. Her jacket and purse were there, but she was gone by the time Christy got back"

Sam felt the cogs in his head begin to whir despite his intention not to engage with what Dean was telling him. "So, someone took her from her room. Must have been someone she knew"

"Makes sense" Dean agreed, before continuing. "So anyway, this girl was a regular Sandra Dee, you know _won't go to bed til I'm legally wed? _She actually founded the local campus chastity club" The elder hunter's disgust was evident.

"So we could be looking at some kind of sexual purity ritual?" Sam was becoming more involved by the second, his mind sharpening focus as the painkillers began to eradicate the effects of the military tattoo his head had just performed.

"Well in that case you'd better watch yourself Sammy!" Dean quipped, moving to sit on the edge of his bed.

Sam shot him a glare that could have shattered glass. "Cute, Dean"

"Okay, okay" Dean held out his palms placatingly. "So the second victim was a sophomore called Gerry McCafferty, and he died about a week ago. Apparently he was a bit of a lone wolf, and the last time anyone remembers seein' him was in _class_. Even his room mate didn't give a crap, called him a self-righteous prick, and I gotta say I agree with him. I mean, if buzzkill was a person...The guy was apparently about to drop out of school to join the priesthood"

"Okay, so I guess the purity argument still stands" Sam offered.

"Uh, Jake ringin' any bells?" Dean scoffed, eyebrows raised.

"Oh yeah" Sam acknowledged, feeling deflated as the growing balloon of his idea was popped by the unassailable fact that Jake Moretti was far from sexually pure.

"So far I can't see a link between 'em, we'll have to keep diggin'" Dean stood up again, jangling his car keys.

"Where are you going?" Sam demanded, wincing at the way he sounded like a petulant child.

"We need to get ourselves suited-up Sammy. We're goin' to take a little trip to the morgue"

* * *

><p>"Agent Elliot? Agent Collen? My name is Dr Gilroy, I carried out the autopsy on Jake Moretti and the other victims" The pathologist had a remarkably firm handshake for a man with such a dumpy physique.<p>

"Right" Dean answered with patented smile number five: ingratiating with a hint of deference. "We'd really like to take a look at the body, I understand the others have been released for burial?"

Gilroy straightened the spindly wire-rimmed spectacles which had been perched jauntily on his bulbous nose. "Yes that's correct, but you'll have seen the pathology reports I sent out?"

Sam cleared his throat authoritatively. "Of course, we'd just like to confirm that your findings were the same this time around"

"Well yes, they were almost identical to what was found before" Gilroy motioned for them to follow him as he waddled down the depressingly sterile corridor that the elder Winchester always associated with places of sickness and death. "From what we can establish, time of death seems to be around midnight for the past victims - and, as far as we can estimate, approximately twenty-four hours after going missing. This one died between five and seven hours before he was found, so that would fit the pattern. Cause of death was fatal haemorrhaging. There were the usual contusions to wrists and ankles, that damned symbol..."

"So you've never seen it before?" Dean jumped in, his long strides struggling to maintain the slower pace set by Gilroy's smaller ones so that he was in constant danger of treading on the other man's heels.

"Who do I look like, Robert Langdon?" The pathologist sniped over his shoulder, tufts of wispy white hair wafting manically in the air conditioned hallway.

When Dean caught his little brother's amused smirk he irritatedly elbowed him in the side, nearly losing his composure as Sam stumbled and strained to keep from yelling out. Their slight kerfuffle caused Gilroy to turn back to look at them, a questioning expression tugging at his chubby cheeks, but both men had arranged their features into expressions of the purest innocence.

"So as before, we managed to carry out a toxicology screen, and the same elements were present" Gilroy continued, pushing open the heavy door to the freezer area.

"The same elements?" Dean parroted, hoping to get the pathologist to elaborate without admitting that they didn't have a clue what had been found before.

Gilroy paused, his hand on the door to the drawer where Jake Moretti's body was contained, shooting Dean a disparaging look that clearly said _dimwit_.

The elder Winchester merely shrugged nonchalantly, ignoring the way Sam had jammed his fist in his mouth to stop himself from laughing.

"Yes, the same elements. There was evidence of the presence of various herbs and toxins, most notably Atropa belladonna and Digitalis purpurea. Now, just in case you _idiots_ have forgotten even more of what I put in my report, these are poisonous elements, but the concentration in the bloodstream wouldn't be enough to cause death, but more than enough to cause..._discomfort_"

Something about the way the older man uttered the last word sent a shiver down Dean's spine, and he didn't have to look at his brother to know that he felt the same. It spoke of a euphemism of the most disingenuous kind, and it left a sourness in the back of his mouth.

"Okay" Gilroy announced, hauling open the door and jerking the drawer out with the air of a magician unveiling a climactic illusion.

Both brothers stepped forward in unison, on opposite sides of the cadaver, stealing themselves for what they were about to see.

Jenna's description hadn't done it justice.

That was the first thought that made it through the jumbled mass of observations, questions and conclusions clamouring to make it through the doorway of his consciousness.

Grey, clammy looking skin was stretched harshly across bloated features, turning what had once been a handsome face into a grotesque Halloween mask. The eyes had been closed, but the mouth was a gash across the lower half of the face, teeth bared in unimaginable horror. Dean felt a frisson of fear. All of a sudden he really didn't want to know what could cause an expression like that.

He tore his eyes from the face and forced them down to the chest. The crudely carved symbol was like nothing he'd ever laid eyes on before. An outer circle was bisected by a vertical line from which two further diagonal lines emanated so that they formed an 'M' shape. The vertical line descended beyond the limit of the circle and was itself bisected by a shorter horizontal line. He noticed Sam bending closer to take a look at the cuts themselves, and mirrored his actions.

The cuts were uneven, and while some were deep, others were actually quite shallow. It didn't seem to the elder hunter like they were capable of draining a person dry.

"Any idea how the blood was drained?" Sam ventured, directing his question to the pathologist, who Dean had almost forgotten was there, so spellbound was he by the sight before him.

"Well, since the wounds wouldn't bleed out to that extent on their own, my guess would be some sort of catheter procedure, although there were no obvious puncture marks on any of the major arteries"

Sam glanced down at Jake's body pensively, trying to gauge the potential accuracy of the doctor's conclusion.

It was possible, and Dean found himself hoping that it was true. As ugly as that prospect was, the alternative was much worse.

"Thanks for your time" He turned to Gilroy and shook his hand once more before easing a hand around Sam's elbow and tugging him away from where he had been staring, mesmerised at the corpse.

"I think we have everything we need"

* * *

><p>Dean guided the Impala away from the kerb where they had parked outside the morgue loosening his tie with one hand, and steering the car with practised ease with the other. He glanced across at his brother, but Sam seemed to have surgically attached his gaze to the passenger window, though Dean was certain he was seeing little of the passing buildings outside.<p>

"Well, that was fun" Dean sarcastically remarked, hoping to shake his brother loose from whatever gloomy moodiness he had fallen into.

Sam gave a small sigh but did not turn from the window. "Dean...what Jake must have gone through..."

"I know" Dean's tone had the soft, soothing quality it always took on when he was trying to comfort his brother.

"You ever seen that symbol before?" Sam finally shifted his gaze over to his big brother, and Dean could see his doe-eyes brimming with unshed compassion for the plight of the man who had been so close to his friend.

Dean flicked his eyes sideways to collide with Sam's before re-focusing on the road in front of him. "No"

"Maybe there's something in Dad's journal. And those plant extracts, doesn't that sound like witchcraft to you?" Sam was sounding more eager as the scent of the hunt began to override his melancholy.

"Could be" Dean answered in a monotone voice. He still wanted to think of this case as being something average and _human_, and he couldn't dampen his concern that Sam was taking the supernatural ball and running with it. He was still fighting the urge to lock the Impala's doors and forcibly drag his brother away from this place, away from these people.

But he knew it was fruitless. If Sam thought there was any way he could help his friends, he'd do it with a single-mindedness which rivalled even their father's. Dean knew his brother felt a sense of debt and responsibility to these people, knew that he was terrified of letting them down. All the elder hunter could do was hang on to his brother's coattails and try to prevent anything bad from happening to him. Try to protect him.

Before long they had arrived back at the motel, and Sam leapt from the car and bounded up to the motel door like an ungainly puppy before Dean had even brought the Impala to a halt. The elder Winchester raised a wry eyebrow when he realised that Sam had already disappeared inside their room by the time he had turned off the ignition.

Slowly, reluctantly, he exited the Impala and all but dragged his feet as he made his way into the motel room. Sam was seated at the table, ardently perusing their father's journal as he waited for the laptop to boot up.

Dean busied himself by clambering out of his chafing suit as Sam began his search. Rifling through his duffel for a clean shirt and jeans he tossed his brother occasional glances, trying to discern from the younger man's expression alone how successful his search was.

Eventually he couldn't stand it. "Find anythin'?" he asked casually, lacing up his boots.

Sam shifted suddenly, as if startled by Dean's question, and the older man found himself smirking internally, ridiculously fond of his conscientious little brother. Sam's dedication to his research reminded him of so many instances during their childhood when his brother would become so engrossed in school work or books that a banshee could have yelled in his ear and he wouldn't have batted an eyelid.

He remembered the enjoyment he'd gotten over trying various ways to disturb his little brother's calm. One of his favourites had been to pelt him continuously with rolled up paper. Come to think of it, he hadn't been far off contemplating doing just that.

He supposed it had been one more line drawn in the sand between them, one more way in which Sam tried to differentiate himself from his family, from the reality of their lives. Maybe that was why it had bothered Dean so much. Of course, he wasn't above acknowledging the usefulness of his brother's research skills to the hunt.

"Uh, I can't find anything on the symbol. There's nothing in Dad's journal, and none of the usual websites make any mention of it. I'll have to keep looking" There was a hint of defeat in Sam's voice.

Dean felt some of his tension ease at that, maybe the sigil had just been the deranged product of the mind of whatever psycho was killing those people. Maybe for once there was no hidden meaning. After what he and Sam had endured at the hands of the Benders, Dean was perfectly prepared to believe in the horrors of what men could do to their fellows, and in the warped reasons they used to justify what they did.

_Because it's fun!_ He could still hear the frightening psychopathy lacing the tone of old Pa Bender, could still feel the terrifying certainty that this man would literally rip him to shreds, and enjoy it.

"But I _did_ find something about those plants" Sam was continuing in the background, unaware of his brother's introspection. "I already knew Belladonna had serious magical properties, but get this, it's used in rituals to help spirits move on. And Digitalis purpurea is supposed to be infused with qualities that aid in communing with 'the underworld'"

Dean raised his eyebrows. Granted, it sounded odd, and they'd investigated deaths for a lot less, but he couldn't shake the feeling that anyone with a fetish for satanic worship or black magic could find that information easily enough. It didn't mean they were dealing with a fully-fledged witch. He decided against voicing these reservations however, remembering Sam's jabbing accusations that morning.

"Okay, so where to now?" He pondered aloud, scraping a hand across the light stubble peppering his chin.

Sam rose from the chair and began stretching out his long arms, suddenly reminding Dean of the elastic limbed hero from the Fantastic Four.

"Ugh" He let out an involuntary sound as the kinks in his shoulders began to iron out. "I think I'll give Jenna a call, let her know where we're at so far"

Dean nodded and flopped backwards on his bed, crossing an arm over his eyes in an attempt to chase away his lingering tiredness from the previous night. Despite his late night he'd risen early, his sleep patchy and fitful.

He'd wakened to find Sam sprawled across the other bed in a jumble of tangled limbs, snoring in a way that Dean imagined a water buffalo might sound during a mating ritual. The idiot hadn't even bothered to remove his clothes.

He vaguely remembered that at some time in the middle of the night he'd seen his brother take an almighty tumble in the darkness, but he'd been so drugged by sleep that he'd been sure he'd imagined it. But when he'd seen the drunken stupor that Sam had fallen into, he'd started to think that maybe his groggy brain hadn't been so mistaken after all.

He'd dragged the quilt off his own bed and draped it over his brother's supine form, unable to quell the mothering instinct that years of being Sam's primary caregiver had instilled within him.

With Sam's snores still cutting through the air with all the subtlety of a chainsaw, Dean had spent some time looking for information on who the victims had been rooming with. Part of him had hoped that Sam would waken up in time to join him; working alone always held too many echoes of those years when his brother had been at college and his father had been off on one of his unannounced, unexplained 'trips'.

But Sam had barely twitched.

Cursing himself for being such a mother hen, he'd taken a walk to the nearest diner and picked up a couple of breakfast sandwiches, figuring Sam would need one hell of a hangover remedy. He'd inhaled his own on the walk back and had deposited the other for his little brother, along with a brief note so that Sam wouldn't freak out when he woke to an empty room. Faintly he wondered if they worried about each other too much.

Although clearly concern hadn't been on Sam's mind when he'd reamed Dean out for daring to work on a case without him. He still couldn't quite get his head around that one. Taking over? Leaving him out?

_What the hell?_

And here he'd been thinking his brother would be pleased that some of the legwork had already been done. It seemed that he was always a disappointment whatever he did.

In the background he could hear Sam dialling the keypad on his cell phone.

"Hey Jenna, it's Sam" His brother's voice wasn't as hesitant as it had been last night, he was warming to the company of his friends, losing that huge chip that had been hacked into his shoulder for the past six months. Part of Dean was happy for him, but the significantly larger portion of him felt that he was barely hanging on to Sam by a thread; one tug from the Stanford crowd and he'd be gone.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better now, how about you?" Sam continued with a self-deprecating chuckle.

He half-listened as Sam outlined their findings so far, noting the careful way he skimmed over their trip to the morgue.

"So we know the victims were killed around twenty-four hours after they went missing, but we haven't found any links between them yet. Nothing to give us any idea why Jake was chosen, why he and the others were targeted. Is there anyone else we could talk to? Anyone who might be able to shed some light on that?" Sam asked, sounding tentative for the first time. Dean realised that his brother was trying to avoid making the girl feel like the information she'd given them hadn't been good enough. Typical Sammy.

There was a pause as Sam listened.

"Fitch?" Dean heard the questioning lilt in his brother's voice, and he raised his eyebrows though he knew Sam couldn't see him.

"Right, maybe we ought to pay him a visit. Thanks Jenna, we'll keep you posted" Sam hung up and absently let the phone slip from his fingers to bounce on the bed beneath him.

Dean shifted his arm from over his face and sent Sam an expectant look.

"Jenna told me Jake was pretty tight with some academic advisor called Fitch, well _Fitchpatrick_, he's apparently something of a legend on campus. He must be pretty new here though because I don't remember ever hearing about him. Jenna said he'd helped Jake organise that rally a few days ago, something to do with them having the same political goals"

Dean made a face at that.

Sam ignored him and continued, his features becoming animated. "So anyway, if he was spending that much time with Jake over the past few weeks, he might be able to tell us something"

"Right, so you want to go see him?" Dean was sceptical that they'd learn much, but resisting Sam would only result in the puppy-dog eyes being unleashed, and the elder Winchester could only take so much defeat.

"Yeah, might throw up something we haven't thought of. So, cops or reporters?" Sam either hadn't picked up on his big brother's doubt, or he'd chosen to disregard it.

Dean glanced pointedly from Sam's suit to his own more casual attire. "Man, I just got out of that thing. Reporters"

* * *

><p>Joseph Fitchpatrick turned out to be as popular as Jenna had suggested. When the brothers arrived outside his office, they found a ramshackle queue of students apparently clamouring for a few precious minutes with the man as if he was some kind of celebrity.<p>

In typical fashion, Dean barged past them all and deposited himself in front of the meticulously put-together middle-aged secretary who occupied a small office that guarded the lion's den. Sam Winchester watched from a safe distance as she glanced up at his brother with that shrewd and stern glare that such women often had, and nearly choked when it suddenly vanished under the weight of batted eyelids and a coy smile.

In his element, and knowing he was onto a winner, Dean unveiled his most dashing grin and stood back to survey his handiwork as the secretary – gleaming name-plaque proudly declaring her to be Ms Eliza Currie – patted her hair coquettishly and asked in a quavering voice how she could be of assistance.

Sam watched the master at work as he effortlessly charmed an appointment out of Ms Currie, the poor woman hanging onto his every word. _If she only knew..._ Sam couldn't help but think.

"Well thank you very much Ms Currie" Dean said gratefully, reaching for the woman's well-manicured hand. For a brief moment Sam thought he was actually going to kiss it, but apparently that was too much even for Dean.

Instead he merely gave it a gentle caressing handshake as she giggled and adoringly replied. "Please, Eliza"

Dean affected an air of cheeky flirtatiousness that made Sam want to gag. "Well thank you very much _Eliza_"

"I'll buzz Mr Fitchpatrick and let him know that you're here"

Dean smiled once more before backing up to stand alongside Sam. "Like candy from a baby" he murmured just loud enough for his brother to hear.

Sam sniggered. "Yeah, apparently you're _irresistible_ to old women!"

"Shut up!" Dean had time to hiss before the door to Fitch's office was thrown open with an air of regal grandiosity and a petite girl scurried out, looking somewhat overawed. She glared at the two hunters as she hurried past, as if condemning them for cutting short her time with this god among men.

The man himself looked to Sam like some kind of mid-life new-age hippy, with floppy shoulder length greying hair, a finely chiselled jaw that time had barely gotten to work on, and an outfit consisting of a beige coloured tunic worn over white linen trousers.

"He looks like he's wearin' a pair of pyjamas" Dean whispered.

Sam exchanged a wry look with his big brother before stepping forward to introduce himself and Dean.

"Mr Fitchpatrick? My name is Sam Daltry" The beads encircling the older man's wrist jangled gratingly as they shook hands, and Sam found himself looking into intense azure eyes.

"Very nice to meet you Sam, please call me Fitch" The man spoke with an almost electric charisma. "And who is _this_?"

Sam watched as Fitch's gaze landed on his brother, appreciative eyes taking on an almost predatory quality. Dean for his part, had visibly begun to squirm under the scrutiny, mouth opening and closing frantically like a fish too long from water, and had seemingly lost the ability to produce sound of any kind.

Sam dived in to rescue his floundering brother "Uh, this is my colleague Dean Townshend"

"Well, hello" Fitch all but purred, his hand caressing Dean's. For the second time that day Sam found he had to jam his fist in his mouth to stop a giggle from escaping at his brother's expense.

Dean looked mildly horrified at the attention, and all but snatched his hand away from the other man's grasp as though he'd been burnt.

It took one glance at the older hunter for Sam to come to the conclusion that _he'd _be fielding this one. Dean looked as if forming a coherent sentence was out of the question, and quite frankly, Sam was more than a little worried at what might come out of his brother's mouth at that point.

"So, you're reporters?" Fitch queried, the words directed at Sam but his gaze remained glued upon Dean, who seemed at that moment to be finding a muddy watercolour picture of some flowers absolutely fascinating.

"Uh, yes" Sam hurriedly answered. "We're from the campus paper, we were hoping to write an obit about Jake Moretti. I understand he was one of the students you advised"

"Well, you'd better come in. Jake was something of a favourite of mine, I'd be happy to speak with you" Fitch gestured for them to enter his office. Sam chanced a peek at his brother's expression; Dean looked as if someone had asked him to dance the Lambada with a Wendigo.

Sam motioned to Dean to precede him into the room, a sadistic part of him wanting to watch his brother's discomfort as he had to squeeze past the academic advisor. For a moment Dean didn't move, and the two fought a silent battle of wills before the elder Winchester inevitably gave in.

Fitch's eyes seemed to track Dean's movements as if he was a spider looking to catch a fly as he stepped back to allow him entrance. He barely spared Sam a glance as he followed his brother inside.

Fitch threw his arm out in a flamboyant gesture towards two plump armchairs posed artfully before his desk. "Please" He declared, and plopped down in his own chair.

"Thank you" Sam replied graciously, slipping smoothly into a seated position while Dean gingerly perched himself on the edge of the other chair, looking as if one sudden movement from behind the desk would send him packing.

The room was surprisingly free of the new age paraphernalia that Sam had expected, given the advisor's attire. Instead it was neatly kept and bookish, and so tidy that a speck of dust would have looked out of place. A walnut bookcase lined two walls and was groaning under the weight of volumes on almost every subject Sam could think of.

On the wood panelled wall behind the desk several certificates hung, ostentatiously proclaiming the man's qualifications as an academic advisor.

There were no crystals, bead curtains, or anything remotely psychedelic.

"So gentleman, you wanted to ask me about poor Jake? Such a tragedy" Fitch leaned back and opened his arms wide, as if to sadly beseech what the world was coming to.

"Yeah, it's awful" Sam managed in return, somewhat put off by the man's melodramatic behaviour.

"So, uh, how well did you know Jake?" Dean was apparently determined to regain his composure, although it was clear he regretted speaking as soon as Fitch's attention snapped to him with the force of a catapult.

"Oh, he was a lovely boy, he cared so much about others, had such a strong sense of justice. We shared the same political proclivities, he and I. Had ambitions to run for the House one day he said, I was going to put him in touch with some people...We spent quite a lot of time together over the past few weeks organising the rally, perhaps you were there?"

Dean cleared his throat, his eyes darting from side to side as he tried to think of a suitable response. "Uh, I...had...class"

"Oh really?" Fitch leaned forward eagerly, resting his forearms on his desk. "And what do you study?"

Dean glanced helplessly at his brother.

_This was too good_. Sam smirked internally. "Oh, Dean's an Art History major, a real Renaissance man"

His brother's appalled expression was nearly Sam's undoing.

"Interesting" Fitch was smiling at Dean the way a culinary connoisseur might contemplate a particularly tantalising morsel. "I'm more of a Baroque enthusiast myself. And who is your favourite artist?"

Dean's eyes bulged as he searched through the depositories of his mind to come up with anything approaching a reasonable response. "Uh, Da...Vinci?"

"Of course" Fitch nodded pompously. "The master himself. I can tell you have a discerning mind"

Dean tittered nervously. "Right. So, was there anyone _Jake_ didn't get on with?"

Sam didn't miss the way his brother stressed Jake's name, trying to deflect Fitch's attention away from himself and back onto the murdered student.

"Jake?" Fitch looked confused, as if having completely forgotten that they were there to discuss his former student. "Oh, goodness no. He certainly never mentioned anyone to me. That boy charmed everyone he met"

"Was there anything he was worried about? Did he mention anything that seemed strange to you, like being followed, or anything he couldn't explain?" Sam ventured, finally taking pity on his brother and ensnaring the other man's fervent gaze.

"Aside from Finals? No, I can honestly say he seemed happy and content. I must ask...it sounds as if you're angling to figure out why he was killed?" Fitch regarded Sam as if he was a specimen to be examined under a microscope, but his scrutiny lacked the burning intensity he appeared to reserve for the elder Winchester.

"Well...I guess we wanted to, you know, have all angles accounted for" The young hunter hastened to cover their tracks.

Fitch nodded, seeming to accept Sam's explanation. "I can honestly say that I can't think of any reason why anyone would want to murder him. It must have been one of those random but terrible things"

"Right, thanks for your time" Sam rose from his seat to shake the older man's hand once more, registering out of the corner of his eye that Dean was already at the door.

"Any time gentlemen. And if I can be of any further assistance..." He shot Dean another lingering appreciative glance. "Or if you want to debate French versus Italian art, my door is always open"

Dean nodded vacantly, his attention clearly focused on escape.

"Absolutely. Thanks again" Sam attempted to paper over the cracks left by Dean's flight response, before pulling open the door and hastily bundling his brother out.

They managed to make it to the front door of the building before Sam collapsed with laughter, one hand grasped supportively across his heaving stomach as the mirth bubbled through him. Dean gave him a stony glare before stalking off towards the Impala.

Sam felt the peals of laughter shudder uncontrollably through his body as he hurried to catch up with his furious brother. Slapping a hand on Dean's shoulder he gasped for breath. "Think you made a new friend there, Dean! Turns out you don't _just_ appeal to elderly women"

Dean's mouth twitched. "It was like he was undressin' me with his eyes" He muttered indignantly, sending Sam into another spasm of giggles.

"Man, I thought he was going to eat you alive!"

"So did _I_. No thanks to you, by the way. _Art History?_" Dean sent Sam a scathing glower as he shoved his little brother's hand from his shoulder and moved to the driver's side of the Impala.

"Yeah, that was pretty good, even if I do say so myself. Should've seen your face Dean!" Sam snickered from the relative safety of the passenger side, belatedly realising that he'd soon be stuck in a confined space with a pissed-off older brother.

"Well, you'd better watch your back Samantha. Payback's a bitch"

_Well, that's it for another chapter...any comments welcome! _


	6. Sparks Will Fly

Hi everyone! Thanks to all who have reviewed, and to those who are continuing to read! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 6 – Sparks Will Fly**

The car journey back to the motel passed briefly amid the back and forth volley of barbs and jibes between the brothers as they debriefed from the interview they'd just conducted. Neither were of the opinion that they had learned much beyond Dean's apparent appeal to members of the same sex. Though initially affronted, the older hunter soon rallied and began boasting that his attractiveness was now proven to be universal.

Dean.

Sam Winchester was more than a little frustrated by the day's progress. They seemed to have done little more than gather superficial details about the victims, facts which didn't appear to correlate or indeed bare any resemblance to each other. None of the victims had known one another, they weren't the same age, sex, religion or ethnic background. They were just random.

Sam had seen hundreds of detective dramas where there was some sort of miraculous and highly convenient link between murder victims which seemed to wrap every detail up into a nice neat package ready for the heroic sleuth to unwrap and solve with sombre panache.

In real life scenarios there were similarities, albeit without the clear-cut patterns and logical progression that a script writer could engineer, serial killers usually _did_ have a preference for certain victims, or used a convenient pool of potential prey in their locale. Unravelling such crimes usually took months of grinding and plodding police work, often with little reward at the end.

With the supernatural, there were usually defined routines, characteristic signs and behaviours to rely on. Once you had the pattern, the solution often followed with linear predictability.

With this, there was nothing, and Sam was ready to admit that he was at a loss. And it stuck in his craw.

He was forced to grudgingly acknowledge to himself that he wanted to be the big hero; wanted to show his friends that he hadn't lied to them for nothing. Maybe he was finally buying into Dean's _saving people, hunting things_ mantra. He found himself wanting, needing to justify what he was doing.

But more than that, he just didn't want to let his friends down. He _would_ solve this case. He _would_ save lives. He _would_ help his friends.

Dean drew the Impala to a growling halt in front of their room, twilight casting long and murky shadows across the motel building. As soon as the rumbling engine of the classic car cut out, Sam's stomach decided to let out a colossal roar of it's own, clearly audible in the sudden silence of the Impala's interior. The younger man suddenly wished he hadn't been so petty about the sandwich Dean had bought him that morning.

Dean seemed to have come to the same conclusion as he smirked knowingly, but mercifully spared Sam an 'I told you so'. "Soundin' a little hungry there Sammy-boy!" He teased, easing his door open and clambering out.

Sam merely rolled his eyes and joined him so that they walked shoulder-to-shoulder towards the room door. "You telling me you couldn't eat right now?"

"Sammy I can _always_ eat" Dean replied in all seriousness, shoving his way into the room and absently dumping his duffel down onto his bed. "So what'll it be? Pizza? Chinese?"

Sam felt his stomach applaud the choices appreciatively. It was as if Dean possessed some sort of big-brother extra-sensory perception, somehow knowing that Sam would rather stay in their room with a take-away meal than go out. Though most of the ill-effects from his hangover had gradually waned over the course of the afternoon, there was a lingering weariness that left him wanting to do nothing more than fill his belly and then collapse into bed.

"Uh, Pizza" He decided, and his cheeks pinkened self-consciously as his stomach growled again in approval.

Dean shook his head in amusement before tossing Sam a wave and heading back out to the Impala.

His older brother certainly knew him well; something that the best part of four years apart hadn't been able to erase, though Dean's confidence in his own knowledge had become somewhat scuffed and tarnished. It irked Sam as much as it comforted him. He hated that he was still so predictable to his brother, but nevertheless felt a satisfying warmth within him that came from knowing that he was so important to another person. To Dean.

It annoyed him that Dean could apparently read him so well when _he_ seemed to struggle so much in returning the favour. In many ways his big brother was still an enigma to him. There were the obvious traits: his devotion to his father and Sam, his hatred of all things evil, his desire to save people, his bottomless pit of a stomach, his promiscuity, his enjoyment of deception. But underneath it all Dean was a closed book with an irritatingly blank cover.

He'd caught the odd glimpse of what his brother was guarding here and there when his defensive barricade had slipped, and then there were the shapeshifter's pilfered revelations – insight that Sam felt almost dirty for possessing, knowledge he would never dare mention to his brother.

He stood in the middle of the room for a moment, not quite sure how to occupy himself while Dean was picking up their food. With a grumble he remembered that he'd left his laptop in the Impala; doing more research was out of the question. He was just about to admit defeat and grudgingly turn on the television when his cell phone began to chirrup from inside his jacket pocket.

"Hey Sam!" The normally rich timbre of Zach's voice sounded tinny through the cell phone speaker.

"Hey man! What's up?" Sam smiled despite knowing the redundancy of the action his friend couldn't see.

"Was going to ask you the same thing! How's the head?" Sam could hear the laughter in Zach's voice, and blushed slightly as he recalled his behaviour from the previous night.

"Nothing a trip to the morgue couldn't fix" Sam muttered soberly, and then regretted his words when he felt rather than heard his friend's shocked silence. The implicit censure seemed to seep through the speakers and into the pores of his conscience. It was pregnant with meaning; acting as an unwelcome reminder of how the foundation of their relationship had altered.

"Oh...but how - ?" Zach began, his consternation evident.

"It's probably better if you don't know" Sam hurriedly advised him. The fewer people who knew that he and Dean habitually impersonated Federal officers, the better; though he suspected the other man had a reasonable idea of how deep a deception would be necessary to view Jake's body.

"So, what have you found so far?" Zach's delivery had lightened considerably, almost as if he was aware of the impression he was giving Sam. He was trying to assimilate his friend's new persona, trying to fit this different Sam into his existing pigeonhole.

Sam felt some of his tension begin to ease as he related the day's events to the older man. Zach always had been a good audience, and he made all the right commiserations and exclamations – especially when the hunter gave him a play-by-play of their interview with Fitch.

So it was, that when Dean arrived back possessively clutching a couple of pizza boxes and some beer, Sam was happily describing the exact colour of puce his older brother's face had turned when Fitch had started caressing his hand.

He froze in the doorway, pointedly sending Sam a mutinous glare before hunching his shoulders slightly and moving to deposit his fare on the table with a decisive clunk.

"Anyway, food's here. I gotta go" Sam reined his laughter like a recalcitrant stallion and bade farewell to his friend.

"Zach?" Dean asked casually, trying to appear unruffled as he took a seat at the table and eagerly reached for one of the pizza boxes, lovingly inhaling the aroma.

"Yeah. Just wanted an update I guess" Sam responded offhandedly as he joined his brother and neatly snatched away the slice of pizza Dean's hand had been hovering hopefully over, earning him an sharp swat on the back of his knuckles.

"Bitch" Dean muttered affectionately, greedy fingers already pulling at another slice.

Sam took a large bite and mumbled through his food, sending small flecks of crumbs and cheese flying across the table surface. "Jerk"

"Dude, that's just gross!" Dean groused and shook his head, a smile curling the ends of his lips despite himself.

A companionable silence descended between them, the only appreciable sound coming from chomping jaws as the pizzas gradually diminished in size, and the clink of glass as beer bottles were opened, downed and discarded.

Having filled his stomach to the point of near immobility, Sam stretched his arms back behind his head and let out a contented sigh. After the ordeal he'd suffered at the hands of his hangover that morning, he decided he was feeling almost human again. The only item remaining on his to-do list was to sample sleep's all-encompassing obliviousness.

But he didn't like going to bed on a hunt when they didn't have some kind of plan, a direction in which to travel. Aimlessness did not sit well with him, nor with Dean, he knew. Pragmatism was a state of mind that had been unrelentingly drilled into them by their father over the years of boot camp training that had constituted their childhood and teenage years. Planning was essential, but never to the point of rigidity. Sam had lost count of the number of times he and Dean had gone into a hunt with their script mapped out, only to be blindsided – sometimes literally – by something they could never reasonably have foreseen. Plans could be changed, but without being prepared they might end up running around like headless revenants.

"So, what do we do now?" Sam forced himself to break the quiet. He'd always enjoyed these oases of calm with Dean, when their silence wasn't awkward and they could just _exist_. Even with Jessica, he'd held back; had always been worried that some clue to his banished former life would seep through from his subconscious.

In his idolisation of his Stanford life he'd conveniently pushed aside memories of how guarded and careful he'd had to be, of how every word to come out of his mouth had to be censored and screened. With Dean he could be himself, and he'd forgotten how liberating that was. He'd rattled on about finding acceptance, but no one had ever accepted him like Dean had, warts and all.

Something almost imperceptible shifted in Dean's countenance at Sam's words and the younger Winchester immediately tensed. It looked as if his brother was steeling himself, donning his armour, readying for battle.

"Yeah, look...about this case Sam. I just don't think it's one of ours" Dean unapologetically delivered his bombshell.

Sam felt his cheeks turn pink as the fault lines of his anger began to grind together ominously.

"You want to tell me why?" Sam's lowered voice vibrated with the thrum of repressed frustration, leaving him feeling faintly impressed at his own self-control. Maybe this situation could be saved. Maybe Dean would put forth reasonable arguments, and maybe Sam could just as reasonably refute them. Maybe they could amicably come to an agreement.

Maybe.

"There's nothin' supernatural goin' on here. That symbol? The one we can't find a mention of anywhere? Dude, whoever killed those people probably made it up. The drained blood? You heard Gilroy. The plants? Google 'em and it'll tell you all sorts of crap about 'em" Dean had leaned forward, the earnestness of his expression a clear indicator that his Sammy seismometer had failed to register what was likely to be an impressive eruption.

Sam had the fleeting and unwelcome thought that maybe Dean wasn't very good at reading him after all.

"Look Sam, I know you want to help your friends. I get it. I _do_. It's just...this is a waste of time, man. There's nothin' here except some dime a dozen psycho, and I, for one, do _not_ want to run into one of the Benders' city-slicker cousins" Dean sat back again and folded his arms. Point made and delivered. Case closed.

Sam huffed out a breath and wiped a shaking hand across his greasy fringe. "I don't believe this" He muttered, feeling his simmering temper begin to edge towards boiling point.

"Sam-" Dean attempted, but got no further when Sam shot up from his chair, his momentum sending the flimsy wooden structure tipping backwards, but he didn't even twitch when it clattered to the floor.

"No, Dean! I can't believe you'd stoop so low. People are _dying_ here man!" Sam all but snarled, his lips curled upwards derisively.

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Dean rose from his own chair more carefully, hands raised out to the side as if trying to soothe a spitting wildcat.

"You never wanted to come here, you never wanted to take on this case, and you never wanted me anywhere near my friends. You're such a damn control freak!" Sam threw his hands up, needing a physical outlet for his frustration that didn't involve flattening Dean.

"Can't ignore the facts Sam" Dean tossed back, remaining infuriatingly calm in the wake of Sam's raging storm.

"Yeah, you're right" Sam paused, his tone suddenly becoming dangerously impassive "I can't ignore the fact that you're so terrified of being _alone_ that you'd let people die just so you can get me away from here"

Dean flinched as if Sam had slapped him across the face, and the younger hunter realised belatedly that in his rage he'd drawn upon the shapeshifter's ill-gotten words in order to jab the knife into his brother and wrench it. But the red mist had descended and at that point he didn't much care.

"That has nothin' to do with it Sam" A subdued Dean finally replied, but Sam knew that even _he_ had realised how hollow his words had sounded.

"It has _everything _to do with it Dean! You can't handle the fact that I had friends here, that I had a _life_ here. A life that I fully intend to come back to as soon as that demon is dead. You know I hate hunting and you can't stand it. You know, you called _me_ selfish before, but you should take a look in the mirror Dean!"

"Oh yeah, _I'm_ the selfish one Sam!" Dean's fuse had finally sparked, and the words tipped from his mouth like a burbling fountain. "I'm so selfish that I stayed to help Dad when he needed me. I'm so selfish that I spent my life doing everythin' he said, everythin' he wanted, only for him to fall apart when you waltzed off to Stanford to live your _normal_ life. I'm so selfish that when you told me you didn't want me to bother you any more, I left you the hell alone!"

Sam was momentarily taken aback by his brother's uncharacteristic display of emotion, and suddenly found that the angry rejoinder that had perched so readily on his tongue had turned to dust in his mouth.

"You know what, Sam? I used to think the reason you didn't want anythin' to do with me was because you were mad at Dad and you lumped me in with him, but now I know it's because you were ashamed. I always wondered what you'd told your friends about me, about Dad. Now I know. You didn't tell them _anything_" Dean's outburst seemed to have evaporated his ire, leaving him looking crestfallen.

"Dean-" Sam felt some of his own temper become crushed under the weight of the reluctant remorse that his brother's words had set free like a bird from a gilt cage. As usual, Dean had hit the bullseye with unflinching aim. He had the sickening sensation that something precious was about to irretrievably rupture if he didn't do anything to prevent it.

Dean moved forward slowly as if every step sent agony shooting up his limbs, and Sam raised a hesitant hand, intending to halt him.

"You know what, Sam? If you're so hell bent on solvin' this case, you can do it without me. I mean, that's what you want, right? It's not like you _want_ to be with your family. That's why you ran off to Stanford in the first place, right?" Dean smiled without mirth, his eyes cold, empty. "And the whole time we've been here you've been just waitin' for me to slip up. Well, you don't need to worry about that any more"

Sam felt a stab of fear jolt through him like a lightning bolt. This wasn't supposed to happen. Dean was meant to get angry, rant and rave, and then eventually succumb to his little brother's doe-eyed pleading. It seemed he'd pushed his big brother to the end of his rope; something Sam couldn't remember ever having happened before. They were in uncharted territory now.

Dean _never_ walked out.

Sure, his big brother had driven away from him on that moonlit road in Indiana after their spectacular fight, but ultimately Sam had been the one to walk away.

Over the years Dean had taken verbal abuse from his father and Sam like a punching bag, had more than once physically planted himself between his warring family members, but he'd always bounced back. Sam had always thought of him as the scaffold that underpinned his world, the person who'd always be there to support him no matter what he said or did. Even through his years at Stanford he'd never so much as entertained the idea that Dean wouldn't drop everything and come running if Sam needed him.

And despite what he often told himself to the contrary, he _did_ need Dean. Ever since Jessica's death Sam had come to need Dean more than he'd ever thought possible. And the prospect of his big brother taking off and leaving him triggered a lurching sense of terrifying vertigo, akin to being tossed from an aeroplane with no parachute. There was an almost childlike sense of abandonment, no matter how unreasonable that sounded.

"Dean-" He tried again, reaching for his brother's arm as he moved past, but Dean angrily batted his hand away and refused to look at him.

Panic started to take hold when he realised Dean was heading straight for the door. He felt frustratingly impotent as he stood uselessly by the table, the remains of their light-hearted meal scattered across its surface, at a loss as to what he could say or do to fix their torn relationship.

"Where are you going?" He called desperately through the growing lump in his throat, not caring that liquid was starting to pool in his eyes.

Dean paused rigidly in the doorway. "Out" He barked back, not sparing Sam a glance, and slammed the door behind him.

Sam rubbed violently at his eyes with the back of his fist, noting dispassionately that his knuckles dug into the sockets painfully – aware that on some level he wanted to punish himself. He waited with bated breath for the tell tale rumble of the Impala's engine, but the parking lot was silent except for the faint moan of a dog howling mournfully.

Sam got that all right.

He moved cautiously to the window and peered out, pushing aside one of the voile curtains and steeling himself for what he might see.

The Impala sat staring mockingly back at him.

"Huh" Sam murmured thoughtfully as cheeky tendrils of relief began to tickle at him. Dean hadn't gone off in the Impala. He hadn't even taken his duffel.

These were all good signs, but Sam wasn't about to allow his relief a voice just yet. Dean was clearly upset, and just because he hadn't thrown his things into the back of the Impala and driven off into the sunset did not mean that Sam was anything other than on very shaky ground.

Deflated, Sam sank backwards onto Dean's bed, the threadbare connection to his brother giving him small comfort in his solitude. He was certain now that Dean had stalked off to one of the nearby bars, and the fact that he hadn't taken the Impala was a strong indication that he intended to intoxicate himself to somewhere in the region of the level that his little brother had the previous night.

Sam couldn't help but worry. His big brother had the most unfortunate habit of getting himself into trouble when he was off alone somewhere, and Sam had to grasp onto the edges of Dean's bed to stop himself from chasing after him like a jilted lover. He could only hope that alcohol would dull his brother's pain and anger, that being away from the motel room – away from _Sam_ – would clear his head enough that he would consider staying.

He sighed. This could be a long one.

All thoughts of falling into the comforting embrace of sleep long since having departed with a cheery farewell, Sam decided to take a shower in the vain hope that the hot water might wash away the grimy feeling that had nagged at him since he'd exploited the shapeshifter's unfair insights for weapons to use against his brother.

Sam stayed in the shower until the bathroom was foggy with steam and his skin was scrubbed red raw, but still the grubby feeling remained as if it had been forever tattooed there. He'd have some serious repairs to make to his burned bridges, he just hoped that despite whatever superficial damage he'd done that the structure remained intact.

Scraping a scabby towel through his thick clump of sopping wet hair, he continued to grapple mentally with his brother's revelations. Dean had laid himself heart-breakingly bare, and had unknowingly ratified all that the shapeshifter had taunted Sam with. The younger Winchester had tried to dismiss what he'd learned that day back in St. Louis, praying rather than truly believing that it had just been a fabrication designed to upset him.

But what had really shocked him had been the reminder of how he'd treated Dean when he'd been at college. With everything that had happened in the intervening months with his big brother, he'd discounted the anger that he'd held close to his chest like a comfort blanket whilst at school. He and Dean had come to rely upon each other so much that Sam had forgotten that he'd ever told his brother to stop bothering him.

_If I'da called would you have picked up?_

Truthfully? Probably not. And the realisation shamed him.

_In almost two years, I never bothered you, never asked you for a thing_.

Because after repeated entreaties for help with one hunt or another throughout his first two years at college Sam had decided enough was enough. He'd never wanted to know exactly what his father and brother were doing without him, didn't want to think about the danger they might face, didn't want to be lying awake at night consumed with worry about them. He'd lived by the naïve and self-deluding notion that if he didn't know about it, it wasn't happening.

Every time Dean had called him, the guilt Sam had felt on turning him down was like a knife gouging at his heart. So he'd lashed out at his big brother, demanding that he leave him alone, anger acting as the prism through which his guilt and worry were refracted.

It had been amazing how the total absence of contact from Dean had allowed him to scurry along contentedly in his nice safe life. What a self-obsessed jerk he'd been.

Still feeling somewhat dazed, Sam wandered out of the bathroom, towel slung around his waist. He reached for his duffel, eyes involuntarily straying to Dean's lone bag, still sitting where his brother had dumped it on their return from interviewing Fitch.

His mouth twitched into a smile before he could consciously stop himself. When had he ever laughed like that with anyone else? Sure, he and his friends had teased each other mercilessly, but it wasn't really the same.

And the thought that he'd end up without Dean at his side opened up a hole inside him so great that he feared it would swallow him up. Back in Indiana after he'd recklessly abandoned Dean and then subsequently raced to rescue him in the nick of time, he'd told his brother they were in the hunt together, and he'd meant it.

What a fine job he was doing.

Of course, Dean wasn't exactly blameless himself. The younger Winchester had heard the undercurrents of truth that had betrayed his brother when he'd attempted to suggest that wanting to get Sam out of Palo Alto had nothing to do with his insistence that this case wasn't supernatural. If this had been any other hunt Dean would have been all over it like a good-looking woman in a bar full of slobs.

Sam knew he had been right to question his older brother's dismissiveness; but his underhanded tactics made his conscience ache horribly.

Pulling on a t-shirt and jeans, he cast his damp towel aside. Maybe if he did some further research then he could develop a reasoned argument as to why _both of them_ should continue with the case – after he attempted to apologise of course. He wasn't sure he'd have much success with grovelling, but then, he laughed internally, it was looking like an attractive option.

Being here in this city, where he'd been so happy, where he'd buried the love of his life, was an ever-present agony. He might be able to put it on the back burner – the Winchesters were experts at that after all – but it dogged his every step. Though he'd felt relieved the previous night when Dean had left him alone with his friends, the thought of not having his brother's solid presence at his side terrified him. He knew his emotions were all over the place, and that he was pushing Dean away as much as he was trying to hang onto him for dear life.

The time spent with his friends, as soothing a salve as it had been in his grief, had been an illusion. He'd known Dean was waiting for him back at the motel, the safety net ready and waiting to catch him if he fell. But if Dean left Palo Alto, he knew his sorrow would crush him. His friends would be like a wooden buttress compared to Dean's Hoover Dam; they wouldn't last a second in staunching the flow of his anguish.

Once dressed, Sam glanced around the room, eyes systematically scanning for his laptop. A bubble of panic exploded within him when it didn't reveal itself, and then he slapped his forehead at his stupidity. It was still in the Impala, which Dean had kindly left for him.

He sighed, and began rooting around for the spare key that his brother usually kept in his duffel. Sam wasn't allowed one, apparently. Dean couldn't have his little brother driving around in his cherished car without express permission. Sam rolled his eyes with a long-suffering snort of exasperation.

Locating the elusive key, zipped into a special compartment of the duffel like some sort of precious gem, Sam tossed it into the air and then caught it again, barely resisting the urge to check that his moment of rebellion hadn't been witnessed by anyone – especially Dean.

He moved to the door and distractedly pulled it open.

And found himself staring into the abyss of two malevolent black orbs.

* * *

><p>Dean had intended to drink himself into blissful oblivion. He'd carefully picked his establishment, and he'd painstakingly chosen his beverage. But when he raised his glass of whisky to his lips, the earthy aroma that he normally savoured seemed instead to entice the bile to his throat like some sort of twisted snake charmer.<p>

The bar was the type of shadowy, anonymous tavern with little to advertise its presence or function from the exterior except for a tawdry neon beer sign hanging crookedly in the dingy window. An indistinguishable guitar riff was crashing along in the background, barely audible over the sounds of glass bottles being dropped unceremoniously into the bin behind the bar. The floor was sticky from spilled beer, and crunchy from scattered beer nuts.

It was the type of bar where the clientele might loosely be described as 'eccentric'. In one corner, a conglomeration of wannabe punks sat preening over their garishly multicoloured mohicans – a superfluous exercise in non-conformist conformity. Huddled in another corner, two scruffy, hirsute older men were conferring in muted tones – their heads close together as they plotted some dastardly scheme. Several loners - Dean included - lined the counter, avoiding eye contact and speaking only to request more liquor.

In short, it was the kind of place Dean loved.

Usually.

His thoughts were a raging whirlwind, and he could barely latch on to any one swirling notion for long enough to examine it before it was ripped from his flimsy grasp and thrown back into the tumult.

He'd netted humiliation a few times, so he figured that had to be one of the front runners. What the hell had he been doing, shooting his mouth off like that? Could he have sounded any more like a jealous, attention-seeking child? Quite why he'd seen fit to raid his deepest, darkest treasure trove of pain and insecurity and lay it bare for Sam to plunder he had no idea.

His father would be so disappointed in him, letting such a frivolous thing as emotion get in the way.

And how the hell could he face his little brother after the ridiculous way he had behaved?

Sam's words had cut deeply, there was no denying that to himself, no matter how hard he tried. But he should have let the blows glance off him instead of storming away in a temper to sulk like a stymied spoilt brat. It was just one more failure to add to the mental scrapbook, and he so wasn't going _there_ right now.

But dammit, Sam had gone for the jugular, and he'd reacted with knee-jerk thoughtlessness. How had his little brother seen through him like that? How had he known what Dean would barely admit to himself?

He _was_ scared of being alone. He _was_ worried that Sam's friends would dazzle him into returning to Stanford. He _did_ want to get Sam the hell away from there.

He'd thought he'd covered his tracks so well. Apparently he wasn't as good an actor as he'd believed himself to be.

The young hunter set his untouched glass of whisky down onto the comforting solidity of the oak-topped counter, becoming aware that his movements were being tracked. He glanced over to see a busty brunette leaning forward suggestively at the other end of the bar, face clarted in bawdy make-up, her ample cleavage more than adequately displayed by her tight-fitting low cut mini-dress. Sensing that she finally had his attention, she smiled lasciviously and brushed a strand of lustrous hair behind an ear.

Dean could feel his body respond to her blatant exhibition with Pavlovian inevitability, but his mind slammed it's foot on the brakes, calling an immediate halt to any bodily high-jinks. Attractive though she was, and _definitely_ his type, his heart just couldn't seem to drum up enough enthusiasm. He afforded her an expressionless blink, before returning his gaze to his beverage. In the background he thought he might have heard her huff in disappointment before the clip-clip of stiletto heels signalled her departure. Jeez, he was really in a funk tonight.

It wasn't often that he turned down an offer as brazen as that, and the thought served to make him feel even more disconnected from himself, as if Sam had pulled a few wires loose with his barbs.

He tried to see Sam's perspective. His brother was cut from the same stubborn cloth that _he_ was, and there was no way that Sam would give up this case when he felt such a keen sense of duty. Dean knew his arguments had been mediocre at best, a polystyrene wall through which Sam could have poked holes the size of the Grand Canyon if he'd been minded. But no, his brother had trotted out the tiresome 'control freak' line again.

What was with that anyway? Dean had never wanted to control his brother, all he wanted to do was protect and look out for him. If that meant making tough, unpopular decisions, so be it. He'd rather have Sammy alive and pissed than...well..._not_ alive. The parallel with his father did not escape his notice. Sending John Winchester away had been one of those decisions, and Dean sensed that the problems he and Sam were still having could be traced back to that.

Not to mention the fact that Sam was still dealing with unimaginable grief and anger. Dean knew his brother was struggling with being back in Palo Alto, and he was lashing out at the one person he knew would take it. And that person had taken himself off in a silly huff.

Terrific.

When Dean stripped back the facts of the case, looking at them through glass that was not fogged with his own wants and fears, he had to acknowledge that there was something there worth investigating. He might yet turn out to be right, but there was no excuse for writing the case off until they had made more of an effort to figure out that friggin' symbol.

He sighed, the conflict in his mind wrestling fruitlessly. No matter how he couched it, the battle came down to selfishly keeping Sam to himself, or letting him go his own way and be happy. That was the way it had been since his little brother had run off to Stanford in the first place, and though the circumstances had changed, the gist was the same. Dean could drag Sammy away now, and make him miserable, or he could stay and indulge him and risk losing him in the process.

Who was he kidding? There was only one option.

Coming to an uneasy resolve he picked up his glass, downed the whisky in one gulp, wincing as it burned a path of fire down his gullet. He set the empty vessel down onto the counter with a new found decisiveness and marched purposefully out of the bar.

A quick glance at his watch told him that he hadn't been gone long; not nearly long enough to have done his tantrum justice, but to fix things with Sam he was willing to abandon all thoughts of big brotherly pride.

He'd been deluding himself that he was capable of walking away and leaving Sam to handle this case alone. Supernatural gig or not, his little brother could get himself into serious trouble without Dean there to watch his back. But more than that, the older hunter knew he wasn't strong enough to leave, not any more.

The evening air was humid and cloying as Dean began his journey back to the motel. Along the pavement he passed loosely clustered groups of college students meandering in the opposite direction, heading for downtown bars and restaurants. He garnered a few interested glances from the younger women, and smirked triumphantly as their boyfriends possessively jerked them away.

Dean's bow-legged swagger carried him quickly towards the motel, his impatience lending haste to his journey. He had no desire to remain outside among the packs of college lemmings scurrying about in their limited cages; he felt like a wolf in their innocent midst.

He didn't see the smoke until he rounded the last corner.

_A little shorter this time, but I wanted to be mean and leave you with a wee cliffhanger..._

_Thanks for reading! Any comments welcome!_


	7. Smoke Signal

Hi everyone, here is the next update! Thanks for the reviews and I hope you enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 7 – Smoke Signal**

Dean Winchester stopped dead as he saw the ugly furls of black smoke reach cruel, grasping fingers upwards towards the velvet soft sky, plundering its bounty of stars and imprisoning them in burgeoning charcoal fists.

The front of the motel was now almost entirely obscured by the malignant cloud as it billowed outwards, the vicious glow of writhing flames briefly visible through floating particles of ash. Dean's heart jumped to his throat and appeared to be trying to evacuate his body as the smoke claimed the Impala and swallowed it whole.

_As it claimed the Impala..._

"No. No, no, no, no!" Dean whispered in horror as he realised the source of the blaze. It was coming from their room.

From _their _room.

"SAM!" Dean's legs were pumping before he was even aware of giving them a command. He flew across the parking lot, eyes glued to the room and the deepening hues of orange flickering through the window, his only thought being for his brother.

Sam was in there. _Sammy_ was in there. He had to get to him.

Somewhere on the periphery of conscious awareness he noticed that there were no ambulances, no fire engines. Nobody appeared to be around.

He had to get to him.

"SAM! SAMMY!" He yelled, throat catching as his lungs began taking in the tainted air. Through the smoke he could see that the door was ominously closed, the smoke gushing from underneath it. This close to the room he could feel the searing heat emanating from within.

Oh god. His brother was in there. Oh god, oh god, oh god...

He reared back, fully intending to kick down the door. He knew of the dangers of feeding oxygen to a fire, but he didn't care. It was the only way to get to Sam.

He was about to let fly when he suddenly felt hands clutching at his shoulders, frantically spinning him around and sending him off balance.

Panicked blue eyes traversed his features from underneath a mop of raven black hair. "Man, you can't go in there!" There was surprising strength in the younger man's stocky frame as he tugged at the hunter. His well nourished and pristine appearance marked him as one of Stanford's brethren, with brand names emblazoned across his clothing like badges of honour.

The boy was way out of his league.

Dean's expression contorted as he tried to push the stranger away, but the other man held on fast. "The hell I can't! My brother's in there!"

"No! It's too dangerous! Man, I'm sorry but nobody could survive that!" The younger man persisted, trying in vain to move Dean, but the hunter had put down roots.

"Get the hell off me! I gotta get in there!" Dean finally succeeded in dislodging the moron trying to keep him from his brother, and moved towards the door once more, terrified at every passing second that Sam remained inside.

"Look, the fire department will be here any minute! You have to wait!" The kid tried once more, his wholesome face desperate.

Dean sent him a smouldering look. "It's my brother"

He charged towards the door, pulling his canvas jacket up to cover his head, slamming his boot into the door and sending it splintering to the ground. Hand over his mouth to ward off the smoke he ducked the surge of the ravenous flames, crashing to the ground with a jolt and unintentionally forcing a poisonous gulp of air into his lungs.

The resulting coughing fit was almost blinding as it clawed at his throat, and he scrubbed at his eyes to ward off tears as he frantically scanned the ground for his brother. In front of him he was able to discern the legs of the table through the swirls of smoke, but little else. He awkwardly belly-crawled his way forward, his progress stunted by the need to keep his mouth and head covered.

He could feel the scorching burn from the flames licking at his ankles as his head whipped back and forward searching for his brother's sasquatch frame. The heat and smoke were as suffocating as a blast furnace, stealing his air and smothering his voice as he tried to yell out for Sam, but the cold fear he felt for his brother doused the blaze inside him like a bucket of ice.

God, he couldn't see him anywhere!

He rolled suddenly out of the way as one of the quilts caught fire with a whoosh, the blaze hungrily devouring the flimsy cover, and he dreaded to think what the flames would make of whatever cheap polymer they were made of.

Coughing painfully once more, he scrubbed more tears from his eyes, allowing a moment of brief clarity in his vision. _There!_

He could see two gigantic feet sticking out from the other side of the farthest bed, and in his haste to reach his brother he raised himself into a running crouch until he stumbled and collapsed next to Sam's crumpled form.

"Sam! _Sammy_!" He shook feverishly at his brother's shoulder, his stomach dropping sickeningly at the way the younger man's head lolled back and forth with the motion. There was no response. "C'mon! Sammy, wake up!"

His coughs were becoming increasingly more piercing, leaving the inside of his throat feeling scratchy and raw as he struggled to drag air into his lungs.

Sam was terrifyingly still.

Dean nearly felt all reason flee his mind. His brother looked like death, and it took precious seconds for blind hysteria to make way for the sturdy logic he'd relied upon during so many hunts. Steeling himself, he pressed a gentle hand to his brother's neck. Panic derailed the first few attempts to catch Sam's pulse, but finally a thready thrum greeted his probing fingers and he closed his eyes in relief.

He had to get Sam out of there.

Thankfully the worst of the blaze hadn't yet reached their position, but Dean would still have to haul his brother through the spitting sparks before they could escape the room. Dimly, through the crackling roar of the flames, the older man was aware of caterwauling sirens in the distance, but there was no time to wait for the help they promised.

There was no hesitation as he whipped his battered jacket off and laid it gently over Sam's upper body as he hefted him up and over his shoulders, coughs hacking at his lungs and slowly depleting his strength as he tried to maintain his grip on his brother's almost overwhelming bulk. "I'm gonna get you outta here Sammy" He murmured, more to himself than his brother, but his determination acted to bolster his flagging energy.

He staggered forward, all thought pinned on delivering his burden to safety. No alternative notion was allowed passage into his mind's territory.

They'd nearly reached the door when a spark from the exploding television set flew out and seared Dean on his bare forearm, the shock sending him crashing to the floor with an agonising yelp, Sam's heavy weight landing on him and trapping him there.

Gut wrenching coughs racked his abused lungs as he tried to push up on trembling arms, but his limbs were unable to hold the combined weight of the two Winchesters and he sagged downwards once more. Dean felt defeat ignite inside him as his vision turned blurry and his throat began to close. Logic was still at the helm though, and right now it was telling him that he was going to die. _Sam_ was going to die.

He didn't know how long they lay there, so near freedom and yet so far. And as Dean felt his swollen throat begin to starve him of air, all hope started to fade and he slumped forward. Beaten.

So it happened that Dean was taken completely by surprise when his brother's dead weight was abruptly removed from his body, and he was able to do little more than choke helplessly as strange hands grabbed at his arms and legs, conveying him swiftly from the room.

He opened stinging eyes to see the helmeted forms of two fire fighters as they carried him outside into the blissful purity of the outside air. His lips flapped up and down like a dying fish as he tried to force sound past his punished throat, but he was shushed by the other men as they told him he was safe, and that everything was going to be fine.

If only he could believe them.

He couldn't see his brother, and he was seconds away from falling apart. He didn't even know if Sam was still alive; his pulse had been terrifyingly feeble. His face had been so slack, his body so limp.

All at once he felt a soft but firm presence beneath him as he was abruptly deposited on a stretcher, and new faces materialised before him. They barked instructions at each other with urgent professionalism in between meaningless soothing platitudes to their patient. An oxygen mask was placed firmly over his nose and mouth, but Dean was having none of it. He pushed weakly at the mask, sliding it away even as the gentle hands of the female paramedic reached out to replace it.

"M'brother" He rasped weakly as he swatted feebly at the foreign object.

"Sir, please try to stay calm and breath through the mask" The woman responded with brisk concern, her pale hair glowing orange from the fire's reflected light.

Through his fog of confusion he could sense people moving around him, poking and prodding, making garbled pronouncements.

But only one thing mattered to him. One thought shone through his clouded mind like a chilling ray of sunshine.

"He alive?" he forced out as he shoved aside the mask once more, needing desperately to be told, but terrified of what he might hear.

His whole world tilted suddenly as his stretcher was hefted upwards. The woman who had spoken before seemed to take pity on him despite her apparent irritation as she exasperatedly returned the mask to its rightful place. "He's alive, but he's suffered a head trauma and he's still unconscious. We've also got likely burns and smoke inhalation. It's imperative that we get him to a hospital right away. He's in the ambulance now, you can see him in a moment. Please try not to talk, and just breathe through the mask"

Dean closed his eyes as relief battled worry in an epic swashbuckler of a fight, swords clashing, capes flowing, the victor at this point uncertain.

He could feel his body trembling as his adrenaline supply exhausted itself, and he was vaguely aware of entering the achingly bright interior of the emergency vehicle. Across from him he could see his brother lying supine on another stretcher, blood clearly visible now on his similarly masked face, weaving a grotesque trail from a nasty looking gash on his left temple. It took all of his remaining strength not to wrench himself upright and leap over to his brother's side. But the threatening look shot to him by the male paramedic who was bending over Sam's prone form told him that he would suffer dire consequences if he so much as twitched in his brother's direction.

So Dean had to make do with grafting his gaze onto Sam's face as the ambulance began to move, watching, praying for any sign that his brother was wakening. The fact that he remained unconscious was deeply worrying, not to mention the unknown length of time he had been breathing in toxic smoke.

Seeing him lying there, Dean couldn't help but ache at Sam's vulnerability, and the surge of protectiveness he felt was almost intoxicating. He'd spent his life looking after the kid, and as he watched over him now, he was reminded of every sleepless night he'd ever spent looking after his feverish little brother, of every heart-stopping moment when Sam had been injured on a hunt, of the utterly lost look in his brother's eyes when he'd pulled him from the fire that had killed Jessica.

But he hadn't been watching over his brother when someone had tried to murder him, had tried to take his life using the one method that had blighted their family so cruelly. No, Dean had been off licking his wounds in a dingy bar feeling sorry for himself. He had failed.

Again.

He'd really only ever had one job, and the thought that he'd screwed it up so thoroughly was unbearable. How could he ever survive if his brother died? How could he ever forgive himself? He'd give anything to take Sam's place. Anything.

Whoever, or whatever, had done this...they were _dead_.

* * *

><p>A solitary figure stood across the shadowy parking-lot from the charred husk of the motel room as it continued to flame, sapphire eyes glued to the departing ambulance as it's siren squealed to life, a grim, satisfied smile curling at the corners of his mouth.<p>

The master had been flawless in his prediction. Everything had played out just as he had said it would, as though he himself had penned the script and had been pulling the puppet strings; and it never failed to amuse. The master's command of human motivation and character was uncanny, but then, it had to be.

He tracked the frenetic blue lights of the emergency vehicle until they disappeared around a corner and the spell was broken. All that remained was the carnage left behind, and the man pushed raven hair away from his face as his eyes were suddenly swimming in inky blackness.

The firemen still at war with the fearsome blaze were oblivious to their audience as he pulled a cellphone from his pocket and absently pushed the speed-dial. He enjoyed wreaking destruction, savoured the devastation. It was the one bearable thing about his enslavement. He hated being the master's errand boy, but sometimes he at least had the chance to stop and smell the roses. And really, the master made sure that his job was never dull.

He put the phone to his ear and waited. When the click signalled the connection had been picked up, there was no greeting, no voice. There never was.

He had only to deliver a message.

"Dean Winchester has passed the test"

* * *

><p>Dean fiddled restlessly with the nasal cannula that had just been taped to his face, already regretting his compliance with the doctor's advice. In the end it had been a compromise. Dean would stop tormenting the medical staff and agree to allow himself to be treated, and they would let him share a room with his brother.<p>

It had seemed a fair trade.

Their arrival at the hospital had passed in a jumbled, slow-motion blur of confusion, as if he was being held rigid underwater while everything continued around him. Words were muffled, people swarmed around him like sharks moving in for the kill, his movements were slow and laboured, his air came to him from an oxygen tank.

How he wished he could simply let go and float away. But Sammy was the buoy that kept him treading water, stopped him from sinking into the depths.

Dean found himself being passed from paramedics, to doctors, to nurses, to radiographers and back again like he was a ticking time bomb no one wanted to hang onto for too long. The most coherent thought keeping him tethered to reality was the fact that he was alone. Sam had been ripped from his side as soon as they had been unloaded from the ambulance.

And nobody would tell him anything.

Sometime after fidgeting his way through a chest x-ray, Dean decided enough was enough. From numerous trips to hospital as a child, he'd quickly learned that the best way of getting what you wanted was to be as annoying and intransigent as possible. Of course, that was all well and good if you were twelve.

Nevertheless, after relentlessly bombarding startled nurses with demands for information about his brother and refusing any and all attempts to attend to his injuries – and damn near risking the harried resident doctor having him committed – the staff had eventually told him what he wanted to know.

Sam appeared to have a clear cut concussion. A CT head scan had shown no signs of fracture or haemorrhaging. Due to where he'd been lying in the motel room, he'd also gotten off relatively lightly with some first degree burns and mild smoke inhalation. He was apparently settled in a room and resting.

He was going to be fine.

Dean on the other hand, had only managed to delay his own treatment with his unruly antics. The elder Winchester endured the scolding like a contrite child, conceding at that point that the only way he'd get to see Sam was if he submitted to whatever it was that they wanted to do to him. It was then that he realised he actually had no idea what all the doctors' poking and prodding had even accomplished.

He hadn't spared a thought for his own injuries while he'd been so worried for his brother.

When he'd finally been wrestled into a treatment room, he discovered that his smoke inhalation had been so bad that he'd very nearly suffered respiratory failure.

Oh.

The good news was that with oxygen and fluids he ought to be fine. They had briefly threatened him with a bronchoscopy, but the glare he'd shot them could have melted iron. So they'd settled for dressing the second degree burn on his forearm, which he tolerated with minimal grumbling – anxious to get to his brother and oversee his care.

So he'd ended up in a double room with Sam, IV jammed into the back of his hand and oxygen cannula rammed into his nostrils.

They'd both been ordered to remain in hospital overnight at least, and Dean told himself that he might as well stay for Sam's benefit – there was no way his brother was going anywhere.

Impatient to be alone with his brother, he shot a brusque closed mouth smile to the harassed-looking nurse who seemed only too happy to be escaping from the room. He supposed he had been a little aggressive, but worry for Sam coupled with hurt and confusion had left him reliant on his most primal instincts. And top of that list was protecting his little brother.

Twitching his nostrils once more in protest at the intrusion – there was no way he was admitting that the cool stream of oxygen the cannula provided flowed down his raspy throat like liquid silk – he settled in to stand - _lie - _sentry over his little brother, who thankfully was now merely asleep rather than imprisoned in concussion-induced unconsciousness.

The younger man was similarly adorned with IV line and oxygen cannula, and there was a thick dressing on his temple. Though his features were still slack and his limbs still lax, Dean thought he merely looked relaxed this time. His repose looked undisturbed.

After much badgering, Dean had been told that Sam had briefly awakened during his medical examinations and that he had seemed lucid and compos mentis, allowing the elder Winchester to cover his relief by joking that he hadn't been that way even before the injury. It had dropped like a lead balloon.

He'd asked for Dean. The elder Winchester had winced at that one. Sam had needed him and he hadn't been there.

Dean allowed his body to sag back against the pillow, finally acknowledging to himself how bad he was really feeling. The sensation of helpless befuddlement had passed, but there was a pharmaceutical haziness which tingled along his body like the fall of morning dew, and which made his limbs feel heavy and uncoordinated.

Talking was still agonising though, not that he'd let that stop him when he'd been insisting to see his brother. Privately though, he thought he probably ought to rest his throat for a while, but he wasn't about to admit that to those insufferable know-it-all doctors.

His thoughts turned to the evening's events. What the hell had happened? He hadn't even been gone that long. Who had gotten to his brother? Why had they tried to kill him? And if that had been their game, why risk someone being able to save him from the fire? Why not finish the job?

_Too many questions_, his beleaguered mind protested weakly, waving a flimsy white flag faintly in surrender. He'd have to wait for Sam to wake up and tell him what had happened. Hopefully his brother would be able to give him some idea of who had done this to him.

And then Dean was going to go out and rip the sonofabitch to shreds.

After fruitlessly mulling over his questions, Dean felt himself drift into a light slumber, but his rest was marred by the flickering of flames dancing sickeningly before his eyes, and the imagined screams of a little brother he hadn't been able to save in time. In semi-consciousness he could feel his head rolling from side to side in his distress, but he couldn't seem to pull himself out. He could hear himself making low sounds of agitation, but once more found himself trapped in his dream.

_Dean._

The voice came at him from somewhere external to his nightmare, he was sure, but it was hard to hear it over Sam's strangled pleas for help.

_Dean!_

More insistent this time, and oddly familiar. The voice sounded rough, like a car speeding across gravel. It was funny really, but it could almost have been-

"Dean!"

Sammy? Was what he'd wanted to say, but it came out as a wincingly painful "Urgh?".

Awareness returned to him in stages. Sound had come first, and now he found he could feel the softness of pillows beneath him and the comforting weight of a duvet on top of him. His fingers clenched lightly at the covering as he tried to ground himself in reality.

There was a anxious snort at his less than eloquent response before Sam tried again. "Dean? C'mon man, open your eyes"

Eyes? It seemed the obvious progression, but it turned out to be easier said than done. After several abortive attempts however, he eventually managed to coax his reluctant eyelids open. The sight of the room around him – bland in that way that only hospital rooms can be – brought everything rushing back in technicolour quality.

"Sam?" He managed this time, suddenly realising that the sound of his little brother's voice meant that the younger man was actually awake. He shot up into a sitting position and clutched a hand hurriedly to his head as the room spun tauntingly in response, the surrounding medical equipment appearing to rise and fall like carousel horses.

"Hey, hey, Dean! Calm down, man. I'm here" The roughness in Sam's voice could have scoured steel, but it was laced with concern, and when Dean's disorientation had faded enough for him to turn towards his brother he could see the worry reflected in the younger man's eyes.

Dean took a long, slow hit of oxygen and then allowed his body to sag backwards with a heaved sigh. He hated the weak lethargy that left him feeling drained from even that small movement.

"You okay?" Sam asked, his probing eyes seeing more than Dean would have liked.

"'M fine" He ground out dismissively, "I'm not the one who got my head cracked open, how do you feel?"

"Like I just went a few rounds with a Wendigo" Sam huffed out a mirthless laugh. "What the hell happened?"

Dean's brow creased in concern as he studied his brother. "You mean after someone clocked you on the head?"

"What?" Sam's confusion was written in glowing neon lights across his face. "When did-What?"

"You really don't remember?" Dean's eyes darkened as he contemplated the meaning of this development.

"No man. The last thing I remember was you...uh...leaving" Sam sheepishly averted his eyes and fiddled absently with his bed cover.

Dean nearly drowned in the wave of shame that engulfed him at his little brother's words and he cast his gaze downward guiltily. He'd left Sam. He'd abandoned him, and had nearly lost him for good. He knew it was an oversight that would haunt his nightmares for months, probably years afterwards. He'd only recently ridded himself of dreams where he watched helplessly as Sam's eyes bled rivulets of crimson, unable to stop him from haemorrhaging to death.

"I came back and the room was on fire" He admitted, his muted tones having more to do with remorse than with any desire to protect his throat. He opened his mouth to continue, but couldn't seem to find the will to keep going. He raised a hand to scrub at his eyes so that he didn't have to endure Sam's anxious gaze.

"Was I...?" Sam began, stopping when Dean stiffened reflexively. "Did you...Dean, did you come in after me?"

Dean dropped his hand and let his head roll back in defeat at Sam's accusatory tone.

The younger man let out a shocked exclamation. "What the hell, man? You could have gotten yourself killed!"

Sam's sudden burst of anger acted like a cattle-prod to Dean's self-pity, jolting his defensive shutters so that they slammed down on his unaccustomed vulnerability. "Yeah, and what woulda happened if I hadn't, huh? Sam, someone tried to _kill_ you. They left you to burn alive in there, so don't get mad at_ me_ for tryin' to save your ungrateful ass!"

Sam winced. "Dean...I didn't mean it like that. I'm sorry. It's just...hard, knowing you got hurt cos of me"

Dean shook his head incredulously. "Sammy, I might sound like I just chain-smoked fifty cigarettes, but I'm fine. Honestly man, you should be worried about yourself. When I found you in there, man, you were so still. I thought you were-" He swallowed and reined himself in abruptly, not willing to vocalise his thoughts.

There was a brief silence as both men acknowledged the close call.

"Dean..." Sam began hesitantly, eyes skittering around the room as he looked anywhere but at his brother.

The older man raised his eyebrows expectantly, nose twitching slightly as the action pulled at the tape holding the oxygen cannula in place.

"I just...thank you...for saving my life. Again" Sam finished, giving his brother the puppy-dog eyes as insurance against future teasing.

Dean wanted to brush off the gratitude, wanted to hit back at Sam for being such a girl, but he found his throat constricting in a way that had nothing to do with smoke inhalation. He nodded in acceptance at his brother's words, but remained silent.

This time the silence was one of awkwardness, pregnant with all that they wanted to say to each other but couldn't.

It was Sam who had the strength to break it in the end. "So, what now?"

"Well, we're in here for the night, bro" Dean glanced across the divide between their beds. "They're not gonna let _you_ out for a while, and I thought I might as well stay here to keep an eye on you"

"Oh, you're staying 'to keep an eye on me', huh? So it wouldn't have anything to do with smoke inhalation..." He paused and looked pointedly at Dean's bandaged arm. "Or burns?"

Dean waved a dismissive hand. "Meh" He grunted. "I could walk outta here any time I want"

He hoped Sam wouldn't see through his thin veneer of composure. He seriously doubted he was capable of walking _anywhere_ at that point, but he had to keep his game face firmly in position for his little brother.

Sam's dubious expression told him that he wasn't fooled, but he wisely refrained from expressing the sentiment.

"Seriously though Sam, there's some sick sonofabitch out there whose got it in for you...I'm not goin' anywhere" Dean's admitted soberly, hoping that his brother would catch on to the deeper meaning behind his words.

_I'm not going anywhere_.

There was no way he was leaving Sam alone. Not now, not ever.

Sam's brow was creased in agitation. Message received loud and clear. "Dean..." he began again, but this time the older man could see exactly where it was heading. And he _so_ didn't want to go there.

Didn't want his brother's pity, didn't want to examine his own culpability.

"Sam...can we _not_ do this now?" His voice came out harsher than he had intended, and the younger man's face crumpled.

Dean heaved a huge sigh. "Look Sam, I get it. _You're_ sorry, _I'm_ sorry. Can we move on? I think you were right about this case. Whoever, _whatever_, is doin' this knows we're onto 'em. As soon as we get outta here we'll start doin' some more diggin'"

Dean had no trouble conceding that he'd been wrong this time. There was nothing like your little brother nearly burning alive to make you wake up and smell the coffee.

Sam nodded at his brother's brusque apology, clearly wanting to respect Dean's wish to maintain his illusion of emotional imperviousness. "So, you really think this is one of our kind of gigs now?"

"Whether it is or it isn't Sammy, that sonofabitch tried to kill you. And I'm goin' to personally make sure that he's toast"

* * *

><p>The night was muggy, but Michael Edelman decided he'd put on his jacket anyway. Even after several years in the Golden State he hadn't been able to rid himself of the habitual need to wrap up warm at night that came from a lifetime of frostbite in northern Alaska.<p>

Brushing a hand across tired eyes, he nodded a goodbye to some of the night's patrons as they shuffled hopefully across the scuffed linoleum of the shelter towards the promise of a hot shower and clean clothes. Even with bodies crumpled from endless days and nights spent surviving in the urban jungle, and faces creased from pained expressions held so long they had become etched onto skin, there was a defiance to these people that Mike found almost awe inspiring.

Volunteering at the Colbert Homeless Shelter had given him a sense of the tenacity of the human spirit that all the academic Psychologists he'd spent years idolising had never come close to conveying. Theory could only get you so far. He'd begun to think that most of his Professors had never actually come face to face with their objects of study, preferring instead to stay safe inside their scholarly bubble.

It sounded like one of those wincingly trite clichés that Hallmark were always churning out, but helping people really was an end in itself. He loved the sense of giving that came from knowing that one had actually done something meaningful for someone else, even if it was nothing more than ladling soup into a bowl. He'd begun to see the homeless people who frequented the shelter as just that, people. It was hardly an epiphany, but he'd noticed the way others always averted their eyes in the street when they passed a huddled mound in a doorway, it being easier to ignore them rather than be affected by their plight.

"Thanks for tonight Mike, you know we always appreciate your help" Maria Colbert, the shelter's owner waddled across the kitchen towards him, her beefy arms jiggling in her enthusiasm to reach him. There were dark circles under her eyes that her lank, mousey fringe couldn't hide, but they didn't dull the brightness in her eyes. She wouldn't have been described as a good-looking woman, but there was something motherly about her that always made Mike want to give her a hug.

She was about a foot shorter than the young student, but her presence filled whatever room she occupied. A popular figure in the neighbourhood, places at Maria's shelter were always hotly contested, and more often than not she had to turn folk away, although Mike knew it pained her to do so. She didn't have the benefits of a fancy education, but she seemed to instinctively know what to do, how to act, how to treat her patrons. Some things you just couldn't teach.

"Maria you say that to me every time I come here, and I always say the same thing in return: I don't do much, I barely even do anything" Mike blushed at her gratitude, as he always did.

"Nonsense, you come here, you give your time. You care. That's more than we can ask for"

He gave her a quick goodbye peck on the cheek as he usually did, and she giggled in return as _she_ usually did, before he stepped through the doorway and into the wall of heat outside.

The neighbourhood wasn't one of Palo Alto's best, in fact it was probably the worst. Gina was forever pestering him to pick another shelter in a more reputable part of the city. Gang sanctioned graffiti was scrawled over every available surface and litter covered the ground like a jagged carpet, mingling with the glittering shards of glass from smashed windows. But that night none of it particularly worried the young man as he shoved his hands in his pockets and headed for home.

He'd been coming here a long time, and the only criminal act he'd even come close to witnessing had been someone being chased off from a car that they had apparently been trying to break into. As far as the homeless folk who habituated the area were concerned, it was jungle rule, but there was order to it nevertheless. There was always the odd spat here or there, but mostly people respected each other. It was a solidarity born of shared misery.

No, the problem as far as Mike was concerned was always with those who _weren't_ homeless.

The weight of his jacket was bothering him now as he walked, the humidity in the air seeming to seep into every nook and cranny of his being. He cursed his inability to trust in the stasis of California's weather.

"Help me! Please!" The voice drifted over to him from across the street, weak and burdened with anguish as the words rode the waves of heat that rippled through the air.

Mike stopped dead, head whipping back and forth as he tried to find the source of the outburst.

There were several people milling around, some staggering drunkenly, others walking briskly as if wanting to get away from the area as quickly as possible.

Nobody noticed the bedraggled figure slumped against the wall of a shadowy alleyway on the far side of the street, shaking hand outstretched plaintively. Nobody even glanced.

"Please!" The voice whined once again, sounding even more feeble than before.

Mike had crossed the road before conscious thought stumbled to catch up with him. He reached the alleyway at a soft jog, which quickly morphed into a sprint as he caught sight of the ugly blood caking the side of the other man's face.

His black hair was matted and sticky, cobalt eyes rimmed in red and wide with pain as he gazed beseechingly up at his saviour.

Mike skidded to a crouch in front of the injured man, noting his almost translucent pallor and the way his mouth struggled to contain his heavy, dragging breaths. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here to help you"

The stench of body odour was almost overwhelming, and dirt clung to the man's clothes in heavy clumps, weighing down the thin fabric of his t-shirt. "What happened to you?" Mike demanded urgently, but the man merely groaned in response.

"Where else are you hurt?"

"Please! Help me!" The man trotted out once more, as if his coherence stretched only as far as the loop tape playing in his mind.

"It's okay! It's okay, I'm going to get you some help!" Mike soothed, hoping that the repressed shakiness in his tone wouldn't give away the level of panic he was feeling.

He stood up, scrabbling around in his pockets, frantically trying to locate his cell phone as the nearby street lights suddenly flickered and died, plunging the alleyway into total darkness.

"What the hell?" Mike murmured, an inexplicable feeling of deepest dread suddenly drenching him like a flash flood. He glanced around wildly, trying to get his bearings. Arm outstretched, he reached blindly for the wall. Suddenly his hand touched human flesh, and he didn't even have time to scream before he was grabbed roughly by the shoulder and thrown head first into the alley wall.

As he crumpled to the ground, his senses haywire from the blow to his temple, he thought he could faintly detect movement in front of him. Clutching to the edges of awareness, Mike tried desperately to figure out what was happening to him. Footsteps shuffled away from him before there was a pause, and the brief flicker of light that came from a cell phone.

_The guy had a cell phone? What the hell?_

He didn't even have time to process the words the other man uttered before his world slithered into oblivion.

"Michael Edelman has passed the test"

_Thanks for reading! Any comments welcome!_


	8. Only the Good Die Young

Hi everyone, thanks for reading and reviewing!

Enjoy! :)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.

**Chapter 8 – Only the Good Die Young**

When Sam Winchester opened his eyes again, morning light was streaming in through slatted blinds, drawing dark stripes across the magnolia walls like prison bars and making the hospital room feel even more confining than it normally would. He'd been captive in there all night and was desperate to start plotting his escape.

The thumping headache that had characterised his earlier experiences of wakefulness had now thankfully abated to a dull throb – allowing some semblance of calm to reign in it's place. He'd been roused several times during the night by annoyingly cheerful nurses stealthily checking that his concussion hadn't led to anything more serious. At the time he'd wondered why they moved around the room so tentatively, but then he'd noticed their wary glances towards his sleeping brother.

Dean must have made an impression then.

The older man had conked out not long after their conversation the previous night, and had been out for the count each time Sam had looked his way, snuggled into his pillow like a little boy cuddling a teddy bear. The younger Winchester had almost expected to see him sucking his thumb. With his barriers lowered, Dean always looked like the innocent child he'd never had the chance to be, which was why Sam had found it so amusing that the nurses crept around him as if he was a dozing grizzly.

Then again, Sam could remember many times growing up when Dean had prowled hospital corridors like a mother lion protecting her cubs whenever something had happened to his little brother. He didn't doubt that this time had been the same, except for the fact that Dean had clearly injured himself too. It irritated Sam to think that Dean might have caused a fuss when he could simply have let himself be taken care of.

But then again, who was he kidding? This was Dean.

In typical fashion, Sam hadn't been able to worm the details of his brother's injuries out of him. From the sound of his voice and the bandage on his arm he clearly hadn't made it out of the fire unscathed, but Sam knew he'd probably never find out the extent of the damage. He'd seen more than enough to set his teeth on edge with worry, however.

Thinking back to the few snatches of jumbled images his beleaguered brain had managed to retain from the previous night, he remembered being settled in the hospital room, distressed that he was alone but presenting a stoic front to the medical staff. He'd drifted off at some point, the whereabouts of his brother at the forefront of his mind, especially since he'd had no idea what had happened. He'd been too weak and drowsy to contemplate creating a scene, but the worry had gnawed at him. The fact that Dean wasn't there, grouching and hovering, surely meant that something had happened to him.

Dean had walked out of their motel room in a temper, that part had been clear in his mind; but there was no memory of his return. Sam's guilt had risen in his throat like bile as he'd remembered what he'd said to his brother, and then there had been no sign of him.

He'd fallen asleep eventually, grogginess overriding any sense of time, and had been pulled from dreamless slumber to sounds of distress – he'd known instinctively that they'd come from his brother. The pounding in his head had felt like he was being repeatedly whacked with a baseball bat, but he was so attuned to Dean that he had barely noticed.

Dragging his eyes open, he'd looked across the room to find that the other bed was now occupied.

By his big brother.

His brother, whose head had been twisting back and forth agitatedly under the veil of sleep, features contorted into a grimace as he'd groaned weakly.

Sam's immediate thought had been to bring him out of his nightmare, as he had gotten used to doing over the many nights they had been sharing a room since they had reunited. But he had quickly come to the chilling realisation that the fact that Dean was in a hospital bed, hooked up to various medical paraphernalia like a helpless puppet on a string, meant that he was surely hurt.

He hadn't been prepared for the wave of panic that had washed over him. The sight of Dean in a hospital bed brought back memories he'd never wanted to revisit. Brought back sensations he'd hoped never to have to feel again.

_Look Sammy, what can I say man, it's a dangerous gig. I drew the short straw. That's it, end of story. _

Dean's disorientation hadn't exactly been reassuring either, and his voice had sounded as raw as Sam's had felt. The younger Winchester had been through smoke inhalation before, and the memory was branded into his mind in the same way that the heat from the fire had burned his throat. He'd never forget the way the smoke had stolen his voice away as he'd tried to call desperately to Jessica as she was grotesquely pinned, immobile on the ceiling of their bedroom, flames devouring her whole.

He'd blinked away the image of her angelic face as it was consumed by the fires of hell. Pushed aside the picture of her pleading eyes. He couldn't go there. He just couldn't.

Clearly there had been a fire, but Sam had had the horribly disconcerting feeling of blankness when he'd tried to delve into the recesses of his mind for answers. And then when Dean had told him that someone had hit him over the head and left him to burn alive...he'd felt sick to his core, more so when he realised that Dean had risked his life to rush in to save him. Again.

And had gotten himself wounded for his trouble.

Sam could still feel the coils of guilt writhing inside him as he thought of his brother getting hurt trying to rescue him. It wasn't like Dean hadn't done it before, but Sam loathed it with an intensity rivalled only by his hatred of the demon that had blighted his life. His big brother was only too keen to sacrifice himself for his family and Sam knew he'd have to force the older man to curb the habit or risk losing him. He couldn't lose Dean like that. He couldn't lose Dean period.

He'd nearly lost him anyway through his own carelessness, and it infuriated him that Dean wouldn't let him apologise for his part in their explosive argument before all this hell had broken loose. It was so quintessentially Dean to brush it off as just an aberration - as if Sam's contemptuous words hadn't cut him deeply - when the younger Winchester could clearly see the scars from the wounds he had inflicted.

And to make Sam feel even more wretched, his brother had to go and agree with him about the case. Had to keep on giving ground, had to keep making Sam feel so friggin' special.

Damn him!

At least he'd said he wasn't going anywhere. He wasn't going to leave like he'd threatened to back in the motel room. It was about the only lifeline Sam had to hold onto at that point. He'd almost burned in a fire in Stanford. Again. Had almost died by the same force that had taken Jessica and his mother from him. He _needed_ his big brother by his side. It seemed inconceivable that just days earlier he'd thought that he didn't want Dean around him in Palo Alto when he didn't think he could even bear to let him out of his sight at that point.

He turned his head towards where his brother was lying, wanting suddenly to hear his voice, and was troubled to find the bed empty, covers strewn haphazardly across the mattress, oxygen cannula abandoned on the floor. A small fleck of blood spotted the sheet where Dean had pulled his IV line out and discarded it.

"Stubborn idiot!" Sam ground out, and then immediately wished he hadn't as the sound scraped past his vocal chords like sand paper.

There was a startled exhalation of breath from somewhere on the other side of the room, and Sam tried to shuffle backwards against his pillows to catch sight of the intruder. His little brother radar had already informed him with disappointing accuracy that it wasn't Dean.

"Hey, welcome back!" A deliberately cheerful voice reached him before he could get a proper view, and all at once a figure loomed over him.

"Zach?" Sam's brow creased in confusion as his friend helped him up into a semi-reclining position.

"The one and only. Becca's here too, she just went to get some coffee. The others are on their way over" Zach dragged a plastic chair across the floor, seemingly unaware that the grating sound made Sam feel like there were a thousand insects crawling all over his body.

Sam's sluggish brain tried to process Zach's words into chunks he could make sense of, but the only thought he was capable of verbalising at that point was: "Where's Dean?"

Zach smirked slightly, as if privy to some joke that the young hunter wasn't. "Checked himself out after the police came calling. Not sure what he told them exactly, but he managed to stop them from pestering _you_ anyway"

Sam's lips pursed disapprovingly. "Well, where the hell did he go? Why'd you let him leave?"

Zach shifted backwards slightly at the vehemence in Sam's tone. "Whoa Sam, he said he was fine-"

"Dean would say he was fine if he broke every bone in his body!" Sam snapped, frustrated. His brother was in no state to be off wandering about. And Sam was pretty certain he knew where Dean had gone.

Zach shrugged apologetically, and Sam immediately felt contrite. Anyone who didn't know Dean would surely have been fooled by that invincible act he was always pulling. In fact, Sam thought that _he_ was possibly the only person who_ didn't_ fall for it – even Dean seemed to believe it with frustrating conviction. "He went to pick up his car, and I think he wanted to take a look around too"

"Of course he did" Sam muttered darkly. They were going to have words when Dean eventually dragged his sorry ass back to the hospital. 'Not going anywhere' huh?

He had half a thought of calling his brother to order him back to the hospital, but then realised his cellphone had most likely perished in the fire. For all he knew, Dean's probably had too. Frustratedly he realised that he didn't know his brother's new cell number off by heart – Dean having had it changed after he'd accidentally dropped his phone in a ludicrously large puddle back in Sandwich.

Sam could clearly remember laughing at his brother's disgruntled response to the realisation that not only was the handset completely waterlogged and useless, but the SIM card was irrevocably damaged too. It didn't seem so funny now, not when it was possibly the one factor keeping him from reaching Dean.

"Look Sam...are you all right, man? I mean, when Dean called and told me what happened..." Zach began hesitantly, eyes brimming with concern. The older man didn't verbalise his worry, but Sam could see from rumpled clothes and dishevelled hair that Zach had left home in a hurry.

Sam sighed with a conciliatory smile. It wasn't Zach's fault that Dean was a jerk. "I guess I've been better" He admitted. "But I'll be okay"

"Dean said someone tried to kill you" The his friend's distress was evident. "I mean, that's why he wanted us to come and stay with you while he went out. He's worried about you"

"He what?" Sam felt the familiar stirrings of resentment within him once more, nudged from hibernation by the kid glove way his big brother was handling him. Dean apparently thought his little brother needed a babysitter while he went out and chased the big, nasty monsters away. Was there no end to his brother's over-protectiveness? It was so infuriating.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Friggin' jerk!"

Zach was looking at him strangely, as if he'd just caught sight of some fundamental detail he'd never noticed before. "Sam, he's just looking out for you. And I think he's right. I mean for Christ's sake Sam, someone tried to _kill_ you!"

"Don't _you_ start" Sam snarked. One overbearing brother was quite enough.

"Hmm, so head injuries make you grumpy. I'll have to remember that" Zach teased, trying to defuse the tension but failing miserably when the young hunter merely scowled in response; worry and frustration at his brother sending his anger threshold plummeting.

"Sam!" Rebecca rushed into the room, unwittingly blasting apart the wall of discord between the two men as she hurriedly shoved two cups of coffee into Zach's unprepared hands and swooped down on Sam, flinging her arms around him.

Sam peered out from behind her shoulder, sharing a mutual eye-roll with Zach before Rebecca drew back. "My god Sam! Are you okay? You would have died if Dean hadn't got to you when he did!"

"I'm fine" He hastened to reassure her, his earlier ire having been squeezed out of him by the force of her embrace. "Dean told you that?" He added sceptically. His brother, though cocky in many ways, was always adorably modest when it came to the things that mattered most to him.

"No, actually I heard a couple of the nurses talking about it when I was getting the coffee. They were gushing about how he'd heroically rescued you from the fire and then cooing over how he caused havoc in the ER until they told him you were okay" She smiled knowingly, and Sam knew she was remembering the way Dean had fussed over him after the shapeshifter had attacked him.

Sam found himself blushing stupidly. He knew how Dean felt about him, had always known, but there was something about hearing it second hand which heightened the poignancy of that knowledge.

Zach was studying him once more, an inscrutable expression on his face, and Sam realised how different he must seem to his friend. He'd nearly been murdered, and here he was griping about his big brother leaving him to stew in hospital. He couldn't help but think that _normal_ people wouldn't be so blasé about something like that.

"Sounds like Dean" he murmured absently, lost in thought. He really needed to get out of there and find his brother, make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

He reached for his bed cover and started to shove it aside.

"Sam, what do you think you're doing?" Rebecca snatched the edge of the duvet from his frustratingly flaccid fingers.

He shot her a mutinous glower. "I'm. Getting. Out. Of. Here" He replied, his words affected and slow, as if he was speaking to a small child. He reached again for the cover, but was deflected by Zach's swatting hand.

"Sam, the doctor wants to keep you in until at least the afternoon" Zach raised his palms, as if trying to ward off the daggers the younger man was hurling at him with his eyes. "And Dean said we weren't to let you leave"

Sam muttered an expletive and sagged back against his pillows. This was ridiculous. "I don't believe this. He's such a friggin' hypocrite"

_What are you doing here?_

_Checked myself out._

_Are you crazy?_

_Well, I'm not goin' to die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot._

So it was okay for Dean to check himself out of hospital after being electrocuted when a dozy kitten could have beaten him senseless, but Sam had to be wrapped in cotton wool because of a concussion? It was okay for Dean to ignore the doctor's advice, but Sam had to obey without question. It was so typical of the way Dean viewed his own worth compared to his little brother's, like Sam was some precious gem to be kept behind glass.

"What do you mean?" Rebecca cut in curiously.

"Oh, uh, nothing" Sam stammered. He couldn't talk about finding his brother's still form crumpled in that basement, head lolling drunkenly as Sam's fingers frantically sought a pulse. _His heart...its...damaged._

He was saved from having to elaborate by an enthusiastic burst of staccato knocking at the door. The others had arrived.

Sam grimaced internally. He loved his friends, but the thought of dealing with a room full of people was almost suffocating. Damn his stupid ass of a brother! He'd no doubt this had been part of Dean's plan to distract him while he went off hunting whoever – whatever - had started the fire.

It was Jenna who made it through the door first, her elfin features twisted in anguish, eyes wide in remorse. She rushed at him like Rebecca had done, and he braced himself for flailing arms, but she stopped suddenly before him, as if afraid he might crumble to dust if she touched him. "Oh god, Sam! I'm so sorry!" She wailed, wringing her hands together in distress.

The others trailed cautiously in behind her, fear and concern racing for poll position in their expressions, but Sam ignored them as he focused on Jenna. "For what?" He probed gently, his mind whirring as he tried to put together a logical reason for her apology.

"This is all my fault! I never would have asked you to come if I thought..." She trailed off, hands falling uselessly to her side.

"Aw Jen..." Sam began, as Elena stepped forward to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder. "You couldn't have known this would happen. I mean, _we_ don't even know what the hell happened"

"You mean, you really don't remember?" Luis moved to sit down on the edge of Sam's bed, studying his friend as he waited for him to answer.

"No man, I got no idea. All I know is that Dean came back to the motel to find our room on fire. He pulled me out and, well...you know the rest"

"You're okay though, right?" Riley piped up.

Sam bit back a sigh. He was already sick of answering that question. "Yeah. I'm okay" _I'd be a hell of a lot better if I could just get out of here and find Dean._

"It's just...a fire. I mean, with Jess and everything..." Jenna didn't seem to want to let go of the guilt she felt, clutching it around her like a cloak.

Sam closed his eyes as Jenna's words tore at barely scabbed wounds, jabbed at the ever present hole in his abused heart. The fire had detonated so many horrific images in his head, flashing through his mind like the strobe from paparazzi cameras. Blood dripping onto his forehead like a water from a broken faucet; the love of his life gazing down at him in frozen terror, crimson spreading across her middle where the demon had carved her in half; the scorching heat from the flames that took her; the pull of his brother's arms as he dragged him from the room.

"I know" He murmured. There was nothing else he could say; no words to comfort himself or the shaking girl before him, no platitudes to get them through the awkwardness of the moment. Just silence.

"Wait, Dean left you alone at the motel?" Luis narrowed his eyes, evidently deciding that going on the offensive was the best way to lift the spell grief had cast over the group. "He do that a lot when you guys are off...hunting?"

Sam's lips thinned dangerously as a ripple of something formidable burst from him and seemed to vibrate across the room like a sonar beam. "What are you trying to say Luis?"

The other man failed to pick up on the air of hostility that had suddenly charged the room with electrical force. "What kind of person puts their own family in danger like that? And where is he now for that matter?"

"Luis!" Rebecca scolded, looking pained as she saw the cold fury that had deadened the customary docility in Sam's eyes.

Zach, whose head had been swivelling back and forth between the two men as they punched and parried like championship boxers, waded in to try and restore calm. "Yeah man, look Dean risked his life to get Sam out of the room. And it's not like Sam doesn't know what he's doing, right? Dean is getting their car from the motel and picking up some clothes for Sam" He looked at Sam and received a nod in return, signalling that the crisis had been averted. For the moment anyway. It took Luis a few seconds longer, but eventually his shoulders slumped slightly in surrender.

"So, what do you think is going on then?" Kate slithered from behind Riley and sat next to Luis, putting a hand on his shoulder in a show of solidarity. Sam didn't miss the gesture, but decided to file it away for future reference rather than reignite the argument.

"Well, we don't know...but we're sure as hell going to find out"

* * *

><p>Dean's fingers kept twitching convulsively towards his cellphone as he sat in a campus coffee bar, the laptop propped open on the table in front of him as he tried search after pointless search on the internet. He was itching to check on Sam, the need so strong it had almost become corporeal. He half expected to see it sitting opposite him, winking at him from behind a mug of coffee.<p>

He shook his head slightly, hoping to dispel the illusion, and suppressed a groan as his vision blurred sickeningly. He wasn't operating at full capacity yet, even with the painkillers he'd downed after leaving the hospital. His throat still burned with every swallow, and the hot coffee he'd been plying himself with all morning had done little to help matters. And then there was that damn lingering weakness.

Scrubbing a hand through his spiky hair, he returned his gaze to the computer screen, now resolutely ignoring the cellphone lying innocently next to it. Sammy was fine. He'd checked with the on-duty doctor before daring to leave, knowing the poor man wouldn't lie to him after the ruckus he'd caused the previous night. Dean could see that his reputation had preceded him when the other man had stammered his way through a summary of Sam's condition. He refused to feel ashamed however. He'd done what he'd needed to do.

Besides, Sam's friends were there. They ought to keep him occupied for a while. He'd be happier with them anyway. Still, he couldn't help but smirk as he imagined his brother's irritation at being left behind.

Dean's hand stilled on the computer keyboard as he finally found something worth considering. One of the campus professors apparently lectured in anthropology and semiotics. The young hunter hadn't had any more luck than Sam when he'd searched for information about the symbol – not that he'd expected to; there wasn't much that the geekboy missed when it came to research. But he'd wondered if the symbol was rare enough that the rest of the world hadn't become aware of it yet. Maybe this guy had heard of it.

He'd returned to the burnt out shell of the motel room earlier to retrieve the Impala, grab a change of clothes from an emergency duffel they always kept in the trunk for just that sort of situation, and do some snooping. There hadn't been much left to pick through, the remaining detritus charred and unrecognisable. But at least they hadn't lost anything they couldn't replace – although a trip to the second hand clothes store was definitely in order.

The elder Winchester had hoped to find some kind of clue among the rubble, but he'd quickly realised that the task was little more than an exercise in futility. In the end he'd grabbed the Impala and high-tailed it to the nearest car wash so that he could blast away the dirty ash that had the temerity to lay it's fingers on his baby.

He could have gone back to the hospital after that and sprung his brother from his medical jail cell, but he knew his brother needed the rest. He'd almost died, and Dean could hardly rid himself of the image of his brother's unconscious form as it lay sprawled on the floor of the motel room, fire cackling gleefully around him.

The fear that he'd lost him was only too fresh.

No, better that he was safe.

So he'd found a small corner cafe, the early hour thankfully meaning that there were few people around. The shabby, unappealing establishment suited his desire for anonymity, and there were only two other people gracing it with their patronage. A guy who looked like he'd just rolled out of bed was flicking feverishly through a thick tome, one hand braced against his forehead. A girl on the other side of the room looked as if she had just completed the walk of shame from the night before and was drowning her sorrows in a mocha latte. It didn't look as if it had been worth it. Dean smirked at the thought.

He pulled up a site describing the professor's numerous publications, yawning his way through most of them, but stopping when he found a promising paper outlining symbols of devil worship in early Christian civilisations. He tried accessing it, but was blocked by the requirement for a campus network access code. Not possessing hacking skills to the same extent as his brother – or indeed _at all_, Dean decided to pay the professor a visit instead.

* * *

><p>Professor Douglas Anderson's office was almost comically predictable. There were rows of ornately carved spears protruding threateningly from walls already festooned with a myriad of painted masks of varying patterns and colours. Posters dotted around the room took great pains to explain the progression of ancient symbols to some of the more well-known modern ones, and the grand bookcase hogging one of the walls was filled with texts in languages Dean didn't think he had ever seen before.<p>

The man himself was more unexpected. He appeared to Dean to be a large bundle of contradictions crammed carelessly into a brown tweed suit. He was muscular, but with a girth that could have rivalled Pavarotti's, and he was middle-aged but with a ruggedness that time had failed to diminish. His face was plump, yet the skin sagged from his cheeks, giving him the look of a bloodhound. There was something of the William Shatner about him, Dean decided, and he promptly started thinking of him as Captain Kirk.

"So you mentioned on the phone that you had a symbol to show me, Mr...uh..." Kirk was looking up at Dean from behind tortoiseshell glasses as he perched on the end of a desk cluttered with assorted wooden carvings and statuettes.

"Oh...um...McCoy. Dean McCoy" Dean had to stop his scrambled mind from distracting him with images of the Starship Enterprise at warp speed. "Yes. The symbol. Right"

Kirk was staring at him expectantly, head cocked to the side. Dean almost expected to hear "Captain's log, Stardate..."

Quickly giving himself the mental equivalent of a slap across the face, he fumbled in his pocket for the sketch he had made of the symbol and handed it to the professor.

Kirk sniffed disdainfully at the crumpled paper before pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and beginning to examine Dean's drawing.

"Yessssssss" He murmured, the word drawn out tantalisingly as his eyes roved the the piece of paper, and Dean had to lock his jaw to stop himself from letting out a frustrated huff.

"I know this symbol"

_Well, no kiddin'!_ Dean wanted to yell, but instead he infused his tone with as much respect as possible. "So, you've seen it before?"

"Indeed"

There was a pause, and this time Dean could not restrain himself.

"So, what is it then?" He demanded, trying to keep thoughts of strangulation at bay.

"This is a very rare sigil. I'm not surprised you haven't come across it before" Kirk finally pulled his gaze from the sketch and looked Dean in the eye. There was something in the Captain's expression that made Dean shiver involuntarily.

"I believe it is the mark of Angranos" Kirk paused once more, lost in thought as his eyes wandered aimlessly.

Jeez, this was like pulling teeth.

"And?" Dean clenched his jaw from the effort it took not to knock the other man off his perch.

"There was a small sect of devil worshippers, first mentioned maybe around fifteen hundred years ago, who believed that human sacrifice would grant them eternal life..." Kirk began.

"Right, sorta like a...'live long and prosper' kinda deal..." Dean trotted out before he could stop himself. He thought he'd probably been building towards something like this from the second he'd laid eyes on the man. The resemblance really was uncanny. Kirk glowered up at him, as if he knew exactly what had been going through the young hunter's mind, but he apparently chose not to call him on it.

"Quite" The older man grunted in response, before shifting around on the edge of the desk, trying to find a comfortable position. "This sect remained hidden for many centuries, and truthfully, nobody's sure how long they'd been practising their sacrificial rituals. Few people even know of their existence now. That's probably why you couldn't find any reference to the sigil"

"So how do you know about it?" Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously. For all he knew, the Captain might have been one of the freaks himself.

"I happened to base my PhD on the subject" There was an air of smug academic superiority about the man in that moment. It seemed genuine enough, if a little convenient. Still, Dean wasn't one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Dean nodded in response. "So, what does this sect have to do with Angranos?"

"Well, he was the demon the worshippers believed would bestow upon them the gift of eternal life"

Terrific. This was shaping up to be a doozy.

"You mentioned some kinda ritual...?" Dean thought he'd probably had more fluid conversations with a brick wall. And this man apparently lectured. In a classroom.

"Yes. The ritual. Well, you'll have heard, presumably of the Seven Deadly Sins?"

_Nope, not at all!_ Dean wanted to snark. Instead he nodded mutely, gagging his inner voice.

"Well, members of the sect believed that Angranos had something of an warped sense of humour. They would present to him seven victims, but not those embodying the Seven Sins. No, they drew the blood of those they believed embodied the Seven Virtues. They would mark their victims with the symbol, and Angranos would rise from the underworld and devour them"

The young hunter felt a chill start deep from within his core and spread outwards until it froze the tips of his fingers. He remembered Jake's expression of utmost terror, could still see the uneven slashes across his abdomen. _They would mark their victims with the symbol_.

Bringing his mind back into the present, he rewound the Captain's words. "Wait, the Seven Virtues?" He'd heard of them vaguely, was sure that in the vault of his memory there was maybe a line, on a page, in a book, on a bookshelf somewhere.

"Yes, they comprise Prudence, Justice, Temperance, Courage, Faith, Hope and Charity. The sect would choose their victims carefully, as they had to be sure the blood was pure"

"So Angranos was a fussy one then?" Dean couldn't help but joke to lighten the morbid air the conversation was generating.

Kirk however, ignored the younger man, and Dean couldn't say he blamed him.

"Okay, so they sacrificed seven virtuous people. And then they were granted eternal life?"

"Well no, not exactly" Kirk replied, and then paused again. Dean was starting to wonder if the academic was doing it on purpose, that maybe he liked to keep his listeners hanging.

Screw that.

"So...?" Dean broke the silence once more.

"There was a catch. Or so members of the sect believed. The sacrifices had to be made every seven years, otherwise they'd be booked on a one way trip to Hell - almost like an unholy contract. And there was a further price. The ritual they performed was apparently so brutal that it was said to steal a piece of their soul, a part of their humanity"

Dean raised his eyebrows as his sluggish brain finally processed the influx of information. Great.

Just great.

He didn't think he was capable of comprehending the number of people that would have to have been murdered over the centuries for these sons-of-bitches to cling to their worthless lives. He didn't think it was possible to understand the selfishness and the savagery it would take to torture and kill all those innocent people. The anger he felt burned like poison through his veins and he violently fought the urge to start throwing around some of Kirk's precious spears.

The Captain was cocking his head at Dean once more, studying him with the expression of a scientist who had just discovered an anomaly in a routine experiment. The elder Winchester realised that his face was probably displaying what must have seemed an unnatural level of disgust for something most people would have dismissed as a – particularly gruesome - fairytale, and he immediately worked to conceal it behind a façade of nonchalance.

"Nice bunch of people" He joked half-heartedly.

"Quite" Kirk agreed. "Oh, uh, Mr McCoy...you never did tell me how you came across the symbol..."

Dean cleared his throat noisily, and then winced at the action as it tore at the already raw lining. "Uh, you know I think, I, uh, saw it on a poster for a new metal band or somethin'. I was just...curious, you know? Thanks for your time"

And with that he scuttled from the room at warp speed without a backwards glance, leaving the Captain staring after him in bewilderment.

* * *

><p>Dean wiped the sweat from his brow as he crossed a grassy quadrangle in the direction of where he had left the Impala. He didn't think the Spring sunshine was particularly intense, but didn't want to admit that he was overexerting himself in his injured state. He decided to remove his leather jacket anyway, as that couldn't have been helping matters.<p>

Tucking the jacket over his uninjured arm he pushed his way past the hoards of students congregating in the open space, some sitting huddled with various scholastic props, others chatting boisterously in cliquey circles. He honestly didn't know how Sammy had ever stood this. Dean hated being around so many people; it was too difficult to keep track of his surroundings. The gaggle of voices was like white noise on his senses.

He tried hard not to imagine his brother lazing on the grass with his group of friends, didn't want one more stark reminder of what Sam had lost.

Every second he remained in Palo Alto took him one step closer to admitting that Sam really was better off here. That his big brother should never have dragged him away. That he'd have to let him go again.

Reaching the wall of the building that bordered the quadrangle, his attention was suddenly snagged by a young girl who was struggling to pin a large poster to a scratched wooden noticeboard. She was struggling because of the tremulous sobs racking her small frame. She was sobbing because the poster bore the photograph of a missing man.

Dean felt his gut constrict. He really ought to be getting back to Sam. And he hated it when women cried. But dammit, her fingers kept fumbling with the pins and the paper kept flapping obstructively...

"Excuse me! Miss?" He was at her side before he'd even made a concrete decision. "Can I give you a hand with that?"

She snuffled wetly in response and gaped at him through tangled strands of honey-coloured hair as if he was a knight in shining armour. She swallowed audibly and passed the poster to him, wiping her jade eyes with the back of her hand as she did so. "Thanks" She whispered, her throat sounding choked.

It was only as Dean lifted the poster to the board that he actually had the chance to give it a proper inspection. The photo was of a young Psychology student named Michael Edelman, he looked to be around Sam's age. He was a good looking man – not that Dean noticed that kind of thing - and his smile beamed compellingly from the poster. "Is he...?" Dean wasn't quite sure what he was asking, but it was a tactic he often used with people he was interviewing. Let them fill in the blanks.

"My boyfriend? Yeah" She clumsily wiped away an errant tear.

Dean finished nailing the poster and turned to regard the girl beside him. "My name's Dean" He introduced himself.

"Gina" She replied, her voice sounding congested.

"What happened, Gina?" he asked gently, leaning back against the wall and shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun. He wasn't quite sure why he wanted to know, but there was something nagging at him; something his instincts were telling him not to ignore.

"He didn't come home last night" She sniffled. "He always volunteers at a homeless shelter over in East Palo Alto. It's like...really bad over there. He knows I worry about him, so he always calls when he gets home. Last night he didn't call"

Dean frowned. He'd heard of the reputation of that area of town, and the most likely explanation for the young man's disappearance was probably some kind of mugging or murder. But that feeling was still knocking on the window to his consciousness, begging to be heard. "What do the police say?"

"Ugh! They're not interested. He hasn't been gone long enough. But I know something happened to him, something horrible. He didn't call, and he didn't go home. No one has seen him, nobody's heard from him. The woman who runs the shelter said he had definitely been there. He left there around 10 last night"

"I'm sorry" Dean murmured, surprised to find that he actually meant it. Maybe it had something to do with walking out into a bar parking lot to discover Sammy had vanished into thin air. He got it.

"Thanks" Gina whispered once more, as if the kindness of strangers was too difficult to deal with on top of her torment. She indicated the stack of remaining posters under her arm. "I'd better..."

"Yeah. Look, I hope you find him Gina" That damn sincerity was there again, but laboured this time. He knew, without knowing how he knew, that Michael Edelman was gone for good.

She nodded and then moved on, leaving Dean to memories of finding an abandoned journal on top of a car in a dark parking lot.

* * *

><p>Sam was climbing the walls. Or he would have been had he not been attached to various different medical appliances. Or had he not been under the watchful eye of one Zach Warren.<p>

The others had thankfully taken their leave about an hour earlier, seeing that Sam was okay and that he wasn't going to spontaneously combust if they looked away from him for more than a second. He knew it was a cliché, but he was feeling a newfound sympathy for zoo animals.

He was going to throttle his brother. Slowly.

Sighing for the umpteenth time, he looked at the nondescript clock on the wall. The doctor had been in to see him briefly earlier, informing him that he could leave at five o'clock. It was now four forty-five. The young medic had been tentative with him, like the nurses the previous night, and Sam decided he'd probably come into contact with Dean at some point.

"Can I at least start getting changed?" He whined at Zach, hating the petulant overtones to his voice.

The older man looked up from the New Scientist magazine he had been perusing while Sam stewed in his frustrated juices and gave him a smirk that the hunter was sure had to be coded for by some big brother gene on the human genome. "The ones you had were ruined in the fire. Dean was going to bring you some when he got back"

"Terrific" Sam snapped sarcastically, sounding more like his older brother than he cared to admit. He was worried. And since he seemed to have been channelling Dean more than usual lately, his worry was manifesting itself as extreme surliness. No one had heard from Dean since he'd left that morning, and the jackass would definitely still be hurting from his earlier heroics.

He'd better be okay. So that Sam could strangle him without feeling guilty.

"Listen. I've been thinking, you guys should come and stay with us" Zach began, and Sam noticed that he was shifting nervously in his chair, as if waiting for his young friend to fly off the handle.

Sam opened his mouth to protest, not wanting to drag the baggage of his dangerous life into his friends' home, but Zach put up a hand to silence him. "Look, I know what you're going to say. You think you'll be putting me and Becca in danger, but there'll be strength in numbers. And our apartment has a secure entry system"

Sam wanted to retort that a 'secure entry system' would be about as effective as a wall of cling film in keeping out some of the things he and Dean had encountered over the years, but his flippant response was blown off course. The offer had touched him in a way he found it difficult to define. His friends had done more than accept him, they_ wanted_ him around. They were prepared to give him shelter, despite what danger they might let through the door along with him.

Then there was the fact that being in this town was like sticking his hand into a flame and seeing how long he could keep it there. Being with his friends that first night had been like an anaesthetic, dulling the pain, fogging the memories. He wanted that feeling, craved it.

And, ever the pragmatist, Sam knew that he and Dean needed the chance to rest a little after their somewhat hectic night. Knowing the wealth Zach's family possessed, their apartment was likely to be far more spacious and plush than any motel Dean could dredge up. Sam knew his brother would resist, but he was also certain that his puppy-dog eyes would make the older man capitulate in the end.

Sam knew he was adept at manipulating his brother – he'd gotten him to Palo Alto after all. He could ease him gently into the idea, make out like they were just going to spend the evening with Zach and Rebecca, and then once he'd got Dean there he could trap him with the doe eyed plea he'd perfected since he was a baby and persuade him to stay. He was sure of it.

"Okay" He agreed with a shy smile. "Thanks Zach"

"Don't mention it" Zach tried to be solemn, but the grin that suddenly split his face in half ruined the effect. He lunged forward suddenly and ruffled Sam's shaggy hair.

"Dude!" Sam exclaimed in annoyance and batted his friend's arm away.

"Yeah, man, you'd better watch yourself or you might lose that hand" Even labouring under the burden of smoke-induced roughness Sam would know that voice anywhere.

His head snapped to the doorway, immediately spotting his brother clutching a duffel and leaning against the frame in a way he was sure Dean thought appeared casual, but only served to show how afflicted he still was. Sam didn't even have to look closely to spot the other clues, the ashen pallor of his sweat dampened face shining like a lit flare on a starless night; the laboured breathing coming in short, sharp pants. Something unfathomable flickered in his brother's eyes before sputtering out like a guttering candle, too quickly for Sam to get a handle on the emotion.

Concern and irritation fought for expression, the brutal final battle in a bloody war that had been raging in Sam's mind since he'd wakened that morning to find his brother gone. He wanted to ask how Dean was – though he could see he was clearly light-years away from being _fine - _he wanted to know what he'd been doing, if he'd found out anything. But what came out instead was a terse "Where the hell have you been?" as irritation finally gutted concern and raised the flag in victory.

Dean blinked in surprise at the harsh greeting, but he quickly recovered his aplomb. "Here and there Sammy. How you feelin'? Ready to split this joint?" The glib reply did little to hide the older man's unspoken worry, but Sam wasn't prepared to be deflected so easily.

"What the hell were you thinking Dean?" Sam could feel the frustration explode from him with the force of a pyroclastic flow. Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Zach cringing backwards, looking as if he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. Sam didn't normally like airing the Winchester dirty laundry in public, but at that moment he was past the point of no return – trundling towards the edge of the cliff and fully preparing to tumble over it.

Dean was looking embarrassedly at Zach, and it only served to further catalyse Sam's desire to shout some sense into him. "Listen, Sammy-"

"No, _you_ listen Dean! You were in no state to go off hunting on your own – and don't try and tell me that's not what you were doing!" He paused from his tirade to see the colour finally return to his brother's cheeks as the older man's temper began to simmer. He wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing, he merely knew that he wanted a rise out of the elder hunter.

"I'm still standin' aren't I?" Dean took several triumphant steps into the room, spreading his arms wide, the duffel swinging from his right hand like a wrecking-ball. "And I've been huntin' _alone_ long enough to know what I can handle, thank you very much _House_"

The barb stung - as it was no doubt intended to - and it neatly extinguished the flame in Sam's hot-air balloon of anger, sending it plummeting towards the ground with a thundering crack.

The unspoken message was clear: Sam didn't have the right to comment on how Dean looked after himself, since he clearly hadn't given it a second thought when he'd been at college. It was as if the previous months of taking care of each other hadn't even happened. As if Dean had forgotten the many times Sam had patched him up after a particularly messy hunt. The younger man knew that his brother was lashing out in reaction to being called on his weakness, but the jibe swept past his defences and lodged itself with unflinching accuracy in his heart.

Ever since he and Dean had reunited, Sam had tried not to torture himself with thoughts about what dangers and injuries might have befallen his brother over the years they had been apart. He'd never felt that he had the right to ask. He realised he didn't know the half of it, would probably never know.

But to use that against him now? Especially in front of Zach...it hurt. Even if deep down, he thought that maybe he didn't have the right to _be_ hurt by it. The facts spoke for themselves after all. He _had_ left, and he _had_ ignored Dean's calls.

Zach was looking incredulously from brother to brother, but Sam couldn't spare the mental space to consider what he might have been thinking. His attention was focused unrelentingly on his older brother.

"Fine" He sighed, wanting to continue the argument but knowing it would stray into dangerous territory, and that couldn't happen while they had witnesses. "But, dammit Dean, I don't need babysitting!"

Dean took another few steps forward and dumped the duffel containing Sam's clothes onto the end of his bed. "Oh really? Cos right now you sound like you're about five years old...actin' like it too!"

Zach gave a loud snigger, and Sam scowled at his friend's perceived betrayal. "Et tu, Brute?" He muttered grumpily but with a twinkle in his eye when he realised with chagrin that the two men were right. He really had been tapping into his inner toddler – or maybe his inner _Dean_.

"Huh?" Dean raised his eyebrows in confusion as Zach smirked at the reference. "Man, Sammy, you're geek-o-meter's gone off the scale since you got back here!"

Sam shot him a glower that could have curdled milk before reaching for the duffel and unzipping it enthusiastically like a child opening a present on Christmas morning. As he dug through the bag looking for his jeans, his brother turned to Zach and held out his hand for the other man to shake.

"Thanks man, really appreciate your help" He offered sincerely, making it sound like a goodbye.

"Not at all man, Sam's like my little brother. Happy to help out" Zach returned the handshake and got to his feet.

Sam glanced up just in time to see something dark flash across Dean's face. It was quick enough that Zach would never have noticed, but Sam stored it away as something to chew on later.

Belatedly, he realised that Dean was getting ready to dismiss Zach, and he couldn't have _that_ if his plan to lure his brother to the apartment was going to be successful. He laid his clothes out on the bed and started to pull the covers away. "So, uh, Zach's offered to let us use the apartment as a base for the evening"

Zach turned towards him, mouth already open in preparation to contradict him, but Sam inclined his face away from Dean's beady eyes and sent his friend a half-wink. The dark haired man closed his mouth resolutely and began to nod in agreement.

"Thanks, but that really won't be necessary" Dean shot Zach one of his patented closed mouth smiles; the one that never reached his eyes, that always seemed like a cheap imitation of his true smile.

Sam closed his eyes as he pulled together every ounce of strength that remained in his exhausted body. "Zach, can we have a minute?"

The dark haired man nodded, the slack-jawed expression on his face eloquently conveying his confusion. "Uh, sure. I'll meet you outside"

Sam barely noticed him leave, unwilling to tear his gaze from his brother's defiant form. "Dean. We're going" Exhaustion gave way to a directness he probably wouldn't have resorted to under normal circumstances.

Dean opened his mouth to dispute Sam's lofty claim, but the deep breath he'd taken as a precursor to speaking caught in his throat and he started coughing convulsively. Bent over at the waist, he braced one arm against the wall and the other around his middle.

"Dean!" Sam shot from his bed, ignoring the wooziness in his limbs and the blurriness in his vision as he grasped his brother around the shoulders and lowered him into a seated position. "You okay?" He asked once Dean's shudders had subsided.

The older man shoved his hands away and stood up once more. "I'm _fine_, Sam. Just got a frog in my throat" He croaked, putting a hand to the base of his neck and rubbing the skin there absently. For the first time Sam noticed the area was a little pink, as if this was an action Dean had carried out frequently throughout the day.

Sam raised his eyebrows sceptically. "Yeah, sure"

Dean ignored the sour expression on his little brother's face. "C'mon Sam. Let's get outta here. I'll find us another motel"

Sam almost caved at the pleading intonation to Dean's voice - its very presence alone an indicator that his brother was not himself – but he held fast. With a brief twinge of regret at the manipulation, he pulled out the big guns.

"Dean...I _need_ this" Sam could see Dean's face softening as the puppy-dog eyes worked their magic. "The fire...it just, you know, brought it all back"

The elder Winchester looked away as the meaning behind Sam's words hit him, and the younger man knew he had won. The first round at least.

"Besides Dean, we're both beat to hell. Let's rest for a little"

Dean's gaze swung around to meet his brother's. "That's just it Sammy. I don't think we can"

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! In case anyone wondered...all the 'lore' in this is completely fictional - apart from the virtues. Any comments welcome! :)<em>


	9. Let it Bleed

Hi everyone!

Since I'm actually a little bit ahead now with chapters, and I'm going away travelling for a few weeks very soon, I thought I'd try and post a few updates over the next week or so. We'll see how it goes!

Hopefully I'll get the chance to update when I'm away too.

Just wanted to say a quick thanks to all who reviewed - you've all been so kind and you really made my day! :)

Actually a little bit nervous about posting this one...it contains the scene that sparked the whole plot. See if you can guess which one! ;)

Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 9 – Let it Bleed**

"Okay, so you think this Michael Edelman is the next victim?" Sam Winchester leaned back in his chair, waiting as the laptop loaded a page on the Seven Virtues.

Dean sat perpendicular to his brother at the dining table, body twisted in his chair so that he could get a proper view of the computer screen.

They were in the dining room of the Warren apartment, a grand room steeped with the generous trappings of affluence. A drinks cabinet claimed one lustrous wall – something Sam was sure his brother was desperate to get a closer look at. The younger Winchester had noticed a couple of aged bottles of Laphroaig and Johnny Walker Blue whisky as he'd passed.

The cream walls were adorned with priceless looking oil-paintings, and the young hunter couldn't help but worry that they'd fade under the onslaught of light pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows slicing along one side of the room. The parquet floor was well-polished, and Dean had nearly ended up on his ass when he'd first entered the room, much to the amusement of everyone else.

When they'd arrived at the apartment – after spending aeons circling the block looking for a parking space before finally lucking out and grabbing one just outside the front entrance – Zach had given them a tour of the four-bedroomed dwelling. Sam had never seen the place before, the Warrens having bought it recently when they'd realised that their offspring had intended to locate in Palo Alto for the foreseeable future. He and Dean had wandered around in awe as they were shown room after room of high-ceilinged, richly decorated opulence.

"Place is like a friggin' palace" Dean had whispered under his breath as they'd ended their circuit in the dining room. Sam had to agree.

He'd remembered the house the Warrens owned in St. Louis, so he really shouldn't have been surprised, but somehow months of living out of a duffel bag in one mouldy motel room after another served to intensify the luxury they were now witness to. He pushed down a pinch of envy as he thought about the lifestyle he might have had if he'd ever qualified as a lawyer.

In all honesty though, he'd never wanted to be especially wealthy. He'd probably have ended up working for Legal Aid, his only goal in entering the legal profession being to stand up for the disadvantaged and underprivileged; those failed by a system that seemed geared towards the depths of one's pockets.

Zach sat opposite to Sam, resting his elbows on the mahogany surface of the colossal table, fingers steepled together as he considered what Dean had said. "How do you know?" He queried, propping his chin on the tips of his fingers.

"I don't" Dean replied shortly, barely sparing Zach a glance. "Just a feelin'"

Sam could feel the indignation coiling in his brother like a spring as Zach looked as if he was about to scoff. "Okay, so if he _is_ next, that means he could be dead in less than six hours" He stepped in, feeling like the referee in a prize fight. Ever since they'd left the hospital, Dean and Zach had been squaring up to each other, and Sam was at a loss to figure out why.

"Well, Gilroy put the deaths at around midnight, so that sounds about right" Dean agreed, peering at the computer screen as the page finally flashed up.

"So the professor said this was all related to the Seven Virtues?" Zach interjected once more, and Sam could practically feel the irritation flowing from Dean's tense frame in waves. "What are they again?"

Dean's sigh was clearly audible, and Sam forcefully trod on his brother's toe in reprimand. Ignoring the slight yelp in response, Sam relayed the information Dean had told him on the journey over. "So each victim is supposed to embody one of the virtues. I guess Annabeth would be Temperance..."

"And Gerry would be Faith" Dean continued, a hand scratching at the light stubble that had formed on his chin.

"What about Jake?" Zach pondered, looking somewhat peeved that he couldn't see what the brothers were looking at on the laptop.

The hunters shared a glance, communicating in that silent way that Sam marvelled at, wondering how he could ever have lived for years without it. "I'd say probably Justice"

"And what about this other guy?" Zach turned towards Dean, who bristled once more as if the dark haired man was questioning his very existence.

"Well, he was a volunteer at homeless shelter in the worst area in the city, so I'd say maybe Charity?" The elder hunter explained patronisingly with the closed mouth smile that had been making ever more frequent appearances since they'd left the hospital, earning himself another kick from his brother.

_What's going on with him?_ Sam wondered bemusedly, thinking back to those strange expressions he'd seen flitting across his brother's face back at the hospital. His behaviour was starting to border on the embarrassing, and Sam was keenly aware of his earlier reservations about bringing Dean into this world. He'd done so well over the past few days, but suddenly his little brother's concerns were becoming more justified.

"I'm still confused about this whole demon thing" Zach muttered, scrubbing a hand through tousled hair. "I mean, who knew _demons_ were real? But seriously, how does that even work? How does Angeron-"

"Angranos" Dean corrected smugly.

"Okay, how does _Angranos_ take his victims?" Zach looked vaguely shocked at himself, as if he wasn't aware of actually forming the words that were coming out of his mouth.

"Well, Kirk said-" Dean began.

"Who the hell is Kirk?" Sam frowned, racking his brains to find the point at which this person's identity had been explained.

"That professor dude" Dean waved a hand impatiently. "Guy looked exactly like Captain Kirk"

Dean.

Sam shook his head and smiled indulgently, the impromptu surge of fondness for his brother warming him instantly like a chemical heat pack.

"Anyway" Dean continued, apparently not having noticed his brother's goofy grin, or otherwise choosing to ignore it. "Kirk said Angranos is called by the sigil. There's some kinda ritual, a summoning spell. I dunno if he actually becomes corporeal or if he just takes possession of a meat suit, but he drains the blood of his victims"

Zach looked slightly green at the thought, and briefly Sam wondered if it had really been a good decision to let him in on this knowledge. He could have kept his friends out of this, could have protected them from the awareness of what was really out there. But then again, Zach had already suffered at the hands of a shapeshifter who had stolen his identity and murdered his girlfriend. His world would never be the same.

He glanced over the new page he had opened relating to the demon, and leaned forward. The information presented was sketchy. Angranos was said to command several legions in Hell, and was described as feasting on human blood, but there was nothing about the Seven Virtues, or about the sect that had apparently worshipped him.

"There's one thing that bothers me about this demon" Sam mused with a frown.

"Just one?" Dean tried to joke.

"No, I mean, what Kirk-" He bit back a groan at his own subconscious use of Dean's nickname for the professor, as his brother smirked triumphantly. "What _Anderson_ said about the victims' blood needing to be pure. Don't you think they'd need to know their victims pretty well to be able to establish that they _truly_ embodied the virtues? If they risked getting it wrong, the whole ritual gets screwed and they end up in Hell"

Dean made an unintelligible murmur as he contemplated this. "You're right" He finally agreed. "There has to be a link between these victims, one we haven't found yet. There's gotta be a person, or _people_ I guess, who knew all of 'em. How else would they know they were pure?"

"Well there's all kinds of ways people might know each other" Zach piped up. "Stanford's a big campus. It could be classes, clubs, sports, friends of friends..."

Sam frowned again, feeling the beginnings of a headache knocking against the inside of his skull. His friend was right, it could take days to search through them all. Time they didn't have.

Dean sniffed and turned the laptop so that it was facing him, oblivious to Sam's growled protest. "Maybe we can find a way of narrowin' it down. Whoever this sonofabitch is, he's gotta have been around for a while. If the ritual has to be carried out every seven years, that's a pretty big body count. There's gotta be a mention somewhere"

He started typing furiously, and Sam had to stifle the urge to grab the computer from him like a spoilt child. It was funny how being around his big brother seemed to strip him of maturity at the most annoying of times. He didn't remember ever being so petty when he'd been at college.

"So I guess this is the glamorous side of what you guys do, huh?" Zach seemed almost awed, like he'd thought it was all gun-wielding, life or death action. Sam supposed it must seem ridiculously mundane to the other man that they were sitting peacefully in a dining room surfing the internet.

"Yeah well, you'd be surprised what you can find on the net" Sam retorted with a smirk.

"I don't think anything would surprise me any more"

* * *

><p>In the end they gleaned little from hours of scouring the internet. Zach had eventually gotten bored of watching them flicking through old newspaper reports and databases, and had left to get some groceries for dinner. He was planning to meet Rebecca and cajole her into helping him out.<p>

Like Dean, Sam had hoped people would have caught wind of such unusual deaths over the years, but it seemed that no one had ever made the connection between the sparsely scattered mentions of satanic murders spread across the previous century. Any newspaper reports they did find were vague and contradictory.

Sam had to admit that he was impressed – in a morbid way that left a bitter taste in his mouth – that the mastermind of these murders had never previously roused suspicion. They'd chanced internet searches in databases as far back as the 1920s – where surprisingly, the records had been put online - and had only found a handful of deaths over the decades that fit the profile they were looking for. It seemed that in any one location there had only been one or two bodies found – never enough to suggest to local authorities that some kind of serial killer was involved.

There hadn't even been bodies found for every seven year cycle. Whoever this was, they'd been careful. They'd been masterful.

Until now.

Sam wondered how the guy had gotten so careless. They'd left three bodies just lying around for anyone to find, like prizes in a twisted scavenger hunt. On the other hand, maybe it was just plain egotism; complacency born of years of freedom from scrutiny. Maybe the guy simply wasn't ready for the twenty-first century, for the constant flow of information, constant monitoring; the twenty-four hour media. Who knew how old he really was? He might have had a grand old time in years past when bodies could simply drop off the face of the earth, or at least wouldn't be missed for days or weeks.

The girl Dean had met was proof of how quickly events moved in modern society. She'd known within hours that something had happened to her boyfriend, and though the police appeared content to sit back with their arms folded, there were others who were prepared to get to the bottom of it. Sooner or later, this sonofabitch was going to make the wrong move, and then he and Dean would be there to catch him.

But right now they were no closer to figuring out who he was, no nearer to saving Michael Edelman. Sam knew the young student would only have a few hours left, couldn't bear to think of the fate that likely awaited him, and there they were chasing their tails uselessly. They wouldn't get to him in time.

The young hunter could feel the panic and regret coursing through him, as much as he knew that there was nothing they could do. From Dean's increasing sullenness, Sam could tell that his brother was similarly reproaching himself. The elder Winchester always took it especially hard when they failed to save someone, always regarded it as a personal screw-up.

It didn't matter that they weren't even certain Edelman was actually a victim. He might have been the unfortunate prey of some criminal scumbag, could have been hit by a random car, or could simply have taken off somewhere. They had no way of knowing, but it ate at them nonetheless. They should have been able to _do_ something.

Sam pulled his mind back to the present when he heard the weary sigh that his brother heaved as he pushed the laptop away from him and rubbed his eyes tiredly. "We're gettin' nowhere with this, Sammy" He muttered, his body sagging under the weight of his exhaustion. "Poor bastard"

The younger man blinked, taking his first clear look at Dean since they'd arrived at the apartment. To say that he looked awful would have been stating it mildly. Dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes, stark against his wan pallor. He'd been rubbing at his throat again, if the raw pinkness there was anything to go by, and every time he moved his burned arm he was barely able to suppress a wince. Sam wondered when he'd last taken any painkillers, and cursed himself for not keeping a closer eye.

Despite his earlier claims to the contrary, Dean often had to be supervised when he was hurt, or he might go days without taking care of himself properly. Sam could remember one particularly harrowing incident from his childhood, when a fourteen year old Dean had hidden a werewolf slash from his father and brother for several days. They'd only found out after he'd suddenly collapsed on the motel floor, delirious with a raging fever. His father's fury had been a fearsome thing to behold, and Sam had thought that his brother would probably have preferred to face down another werewolf rather than endure the resulting tirade.

Ever since, Sam had known that he'd have to pay particular attention to his brother, and he'd learned to read the subtlest difference in movement, expression or tone that might indicate that Dean was hiding an injury. It had taken years to hone the skill, especially since Dean himself had gotten better at compensating – more so when he'd realised that Sam was getting so good at reading him.

There was no question that he'd slipped this time though. He should have forced his brother to lie down – manhandled him if necessary – and coerced him to take some medication. Dean hadn't had the benefit of several hours enforced rest in hospital, he'd been off gallivanting and generally making himself worse.

Not that Sam himself was feeling much better. It had been all very well when he was resting in bed to think that he'd be able to hit the ground running, but he felt as if every bruise was throbbing to a different beat, as if every cell lining his throat had been scoured with sandpaper. Even with the painkillers he'd been popping all day, the discomfort was bordering on the unbearable.

"Dean..." He began, wanting to say something to erase the lines of pain on his brother's forehead, desperate to stop him from tormenting himself.

"We've got nothin' Sam. That poor sucker is gonna get tortured to death, and we can't stop it. We don't even know where to start" The hopelessness in his brother's voice tore at the younger man. Dean was always confident. He always knew what he was doing, always had a cocky comeback. To see him so defeated was difficult to deal with. Sam had been used to relying on his brother for anything and everything, and realised that he'd half expected to hear some sort of pep talk. This time _he'd_ need to field this one.

"Dean, we don't even know if he _is_ Charity" Sam tried to instil some confidence into his words, but knew he had failed when he heard the conviction in Dean's response.

"He is, Sam. I don't how I know, but I do"

"Even if he is, you can't blame yourself. The sonofabitch who is doing this has obviously had centuries, maybe even _millennia_, of practice. No one has ever caught him. He's good at manipulating people" Sam laid a hand on his brother's arm, unsurprised and not offended when Dean shrugged him off.

"Huh, you'd think a Psychology student would be able to tell when he was bein' manipulated" Dean snorted mirthlessly.

Sam thought he might have actually felt his ears pricking at his brother's words, like a dog startled by a loud noise. "Wait, I don't remember you saying that before"

"Sayin' what?"

"That he was a Psychology student. Dean, Jake was a Political Science major, and both Annabeth and Gerry were students in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences!" Sam exclaimed, slapping a hand to his forehead, and then wincing as the pounding in his head redoubled. How could they have missed this?

"So?" Dean blinked in confusion, and it hit Sam that his brother didn't know anything about the college infrastructure that was as ingrained in the younger man as the intricacies of the Impala's engine was in the elder.

"They were all students in the same school, Dean. All the subjects they were studying fall under the umbrella of Humanities and Social Sciences. That gives us somewhere to start" Sam could feel his fatigue lifting slightly as his nose caught the fresh scent on the trail.

"Okay, so that's one link" Dean scratched his chin in the classic 'pensive' gesture. "But one thing I don't get, Sammy. Why'd he come after you? I mean, you're not even a student here any more"

_Thanks for the reminder Dean_, Sam thought, taken off guard at the spike of anger that accompanied the unwelcome intrusion.

"I don't know Dean, maybe they figured we were investigating, and decided to put a stop to it" The younger man couldn't hide his exasperation. They'd finally found a handhold on the seemingly impenetrable wall of this case and Dean wanted to focus on the fire?

"Yeah, but how the hell did they know? There's somethin' goin' on here, Sammy. Whoever knocked you out wanted to kill you. It doesn't take a genius to work out that since they failed, they're gonna wanna try again" Dean seemed to latch onto the subject with the tenacity of a dog wrestling a particularly meaty bone. "I think you should lay low on this one, Sam"

A particularly large thud reverberated through Sam's skull and he put a hand to his forehead as if to stem the flow of pain and frustration. "No way, Dean! I'm not just going to sit back like some defenceless kid. I don't need protecting!"

"There's a burn on my arm that says otherwise, Sammy" Dean was taking on that achingly smug big-brother-knows-best tone that had always rankled with the younger man; from the 'no you can't come with us on this hunt Sammy' that had irritated him at eight years old, to the 'well that's what happens when you put the car in reverse instead of drive' that had infuriated him at sixteen years old.

Sam was too occupied with choking on his indignation to form a coherent response, able only to produce a meagre sputtering protest.

Dean seemed to sense his advantage. "That's settled then. I'll find us a low key motel and you can rest up"

"No Dean, Zach's offered us rooms here. There's no reason to get another motel" He tried to sound reasonable, and when that fell flat, he moved to plan B.

With his target acquired and locked in, he deployed his most deadly weapons at close range, but either they weren't working at full capacity or Dean had magically developed a new found immunity to their beguiling charm.

"Stay here? Not a chance, Sammy. We're goin'" Dean dismissed the doe eyes with an oblivious wave of his hand.

Later, when Sam chewed over the moments that followed, he would conclude that it was probably a combination of factors. The main ingredient was definitely exhaustion, mixed with a generous sprinkling of grogginess, half a cup of headache-induced delirium and a tablespoon of regret for the missing student. But when it was all loaded into a tin lined with irritation, and thrown into a hot oven of simmering tension, it was going to get messy.

Or maybe it was just the latest in a long line of Dean Winchester decrees.

"You're unbelievable, you know that?" Sam burst out, pushing up from his chair and crossing to the other side of the room, needing to underline the metaphorical distance between them with a corresponding physical one. "I was so busy making excuses for you after last night. When you called in Zach I thought maybe I was wrong, that maybe you didn't resent my friends because they're _my friends_. But it's true!"

"Sam I think that concussion must have knocked a coupla screws loose" Dean tried to joke, but it came out as more of an accusation.

"I don't think so! Ever since you got back to the hospital you've been sniping at Zach. What is that even about?"

Dean tried to hide it, but his eyes flickered involuntarily, and Sam knew he'd struck gold. "Don't be stupid Sam! I asked him to come remember?"

"Yeah, only because you knew it'd keep me out of the way for a few hours!"

"You know what? I'm sick of this Sam. Ever since we got here you've been actin' like someone shoved a pole up your ass. I know this is hard for you, but _you_ were the one who wanted to come. I came with you like you asked me to, I made nice with your friends like you asked me to, I agreed this was our kinda case like you asked me to. I'm here now, cos you asked me to be. And all you've done is bitch about _me _orderin' _you_ around!" Dean got to his feet, but swayed slightly at the change in altitude.

"Dean, you're _always_ ordering me around! You've been taking over this hunt since we got here, acting like I'm some rookie who can't handle it. And don't forget Chicago! Dad - the guy we've spent _months _chasing - was going to stay with us. We could have been hunting the demon together, but _you_ told him to leave!" Sam's headache had moved from the jaunty tap-tap of a bongo drum, to the thundering percussion of a full symphony orchestra.

There was a roiling silence, the weight of several days worth of emotional ballast causing it to tip back and forth with unpredictable volatility.

"That's what this is really about isn't it?" Dean shook his head with a grimace. "Right from the start that's what you've really been pissed at"

Sam looked away, annoyed at what he'd inadvertently let slip, but he felt as if the crack in his emotional dam had leaked too much water over the past few days, and had finally caused the whole structure to irrevocably collapse. "So what if it is, huh? How could you do it Dean? How could you tell him to leave? You _knew_ what I wanted, but you just couldn't let me have it. You think I can't handle that either, huh? Quit acting like you know what's best for me Dean!"

Dean closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, both arms tipping forward to brace himself on the back of his recently vacated chair. "Sam, I don't wanna do this now" He sounded so weary, as if he'd spent every dime of strength he possessed; as if he'd frayed himself beyond breaking point, the weight he was carrying finally becoming too heavy for the rope that held it.

"Well, tough Dean! I want to know" Sam stood his ground, arms folded obstinately, determined that they'd finally have this out; the argument that had hung between them like an explosive pinata stuffed full of deep-seated and time honed resentments that they'd both been taking swings at ever since their father had gotten in his truck and driven away from them in that alleyway.

But the elder Winchester didn't have the energy to wield the bat this time.

"No" Dean replied quietly, the softness in his delivery belied by the steel in his resolve. He cleared his throat carefully and eased his grip on the back of the chair. "We don't have time for this right now, Sam"

He grabbed the screen of the computer and pushed it closed with aching slowness. "Now are you comin' or not?"

Sam seethed silently across the expanse of the room, watching as his brother laboriously reached for his duffel bag and zipped it up with a swiftness curiously at odds with the lethargy he was oozing like pus from an infected wound. "I'm not going anywhere Dean. I'm staying right here. And if you want to watch my back, then I guess that means you're staying too"

Meeting Dean's gaze at that point was like staring into the sun's blinding rays – scorching, intense, devastating - but neither were prepared to look away and risk defeat.

In the end, they both lost when the scraping sound of a key in the apartment's main door jolted them like an electrical charge. The soft thud of footsteps on carpet and the rustle of shifting paper bags signalled that their hosts had returned from their shopping trip, and it wasn't long before Rebecca peered around the door to greet her house guests, the beginnings of a welcoming smile already spreading across her face.

"Hey guys..." She began before stuttering to a halt, the smile fading before it had even become fully manifest as she saw the brothers' rigid stance, the twin scowls etched onto their faces as if carved in stone. Zach ploughed into her from behind as she froze mid-step, knocking her forward, and she scrambled to keep her shopping bags from tumbling.

"Everything okay?" Zach pushed past his sister into the room, also stopping dead as he caught sight of the two hunters. The brothers were facing off like two stags preparing to lock horns, and the aura of danger around them would have sent others instinctively running for the nearest bomb shelter.

The enchantment that held them all immobile lasted for several long seconds before one tiny movement from Dean seemed to shatter it into harsh, jagged pieces.

"What's going on?" Rebecca found her voice once more, her baffled face swinging from brother to brother.

Sam opened his mouth to say something - he wasn't even sure what – when Dean abruptly dumped his duffel back down, swiped his jacket up from where it had hung on the back of his chair and wordlessly stalked out of the room. The consternation he left in his wake seemed to hold their voices prisoner until the curt opening and shutting of the main door released them from their bonds.

The younger Winchester seemed to sag forwards at the sound, exhaling a breath he didn't even know he'd been holding. He wasn't sure what had just happened, could barely string a thought together through the pounding in his head.

"Sam? You okay?" Zach surged forward, grasping his elbow with a guiding hand and helping him into a chair.

Rebecca moved more cautiously, gingerly depositing her packages on the table, its gigantic mass making the bags look ludicrously small. "What _was_ that?" She asked gently, sitting down at right angles to her friend, trying to catch his eye around her brother's crouched form. She gestured behind her. "Should one of us go-?"

"No, leave him" Sam murmured, scrunching his features against the pain clogging every pore of his consciousness. He thought that his anger might have diminished somewhat, but it was hard to make sense of anything beyond the spasms in his skull.

"Sam, where are the pills the hospital gave you?" Zach tapped his arm to attract his attention.

When Sam managed to communicate through gestures and monosyllabic grunts that they were in his jacket pocket, Zach hurried to retrieve them, and before long Sam felt his fingers being gently closed around a mercifully cold glass of water. He opened his eyes to see his friend's palm hovering somewhere below his chin, two pills rolling around manically on the surface. Grasping them gratefully, he downed them with a thirsty gulp before leaning forward against the table to cradle his head on folded arms.

"Do you want to lie down?" Rebecca stroked the back of his neck in such a maternal gesture that Sam almost came undone. Jess had always done that when his neck cramped after too many hours of studying, or when tension sent fault lines of pain up his back. She'd never needed to be asked, she'd always known. God he missed her.

This was what he'd wanted to come here for. He'd needed this so badly.

"No, I'll be okay. Just need a few minutes before these kick in" He mumbled, wondering if the words would even be halfway intelligible after they'd made the perilous journey past the blockade of his folded arms.

His friends seemed to understand anyway, and left him alone while they went to make dinner. Left him to wonder what the hell had gone wrong, and how on earth he was going to fix it.

Or if he even wanted to.

* * *

><p>It had taken all the self-control Dean possessed not to spitefully slam the door to the apartment as he'd stormed out. Only the fleeting thought that his credibility would have been truly decimated beyond repair had he resorted to such a childish tactic had stopped him. Oh but he'd wanted to, so badly.<p>

The memory of Sam's goading expression as he'd stood, arms folded self-righteously, demanding to talk about Chicago – about their father – made Dean want to put his fist through the irritatingly pristine walls of the corridor outside the Warren apartment.

That had been the second time in as many days that Sam had lit his fuse. No, more than that, had blasted it into smithereens that would have been detected in the higher echelons of the stratosphere.

The kid had been doing that for years, and he normally managed little more than a scratch on Dean's fort-like defences. Only this time he'd been too drained to keep his walls in place. He'd had to get out of there before he accidentally revealed something he couldn't afford to expose; the memory of his humiliating confession in the motel only too fresh in his mind.

Dean had felt like one of those jugglers he'd seen when passing through a carnival one day – Sammy having begged to go in, and Dean hating to have to disappoint him, despite their penury – the ones that threw flaming stakes into the air and caught them with awe inspiring dexterity. Keeping those burning thoughts from escaping had felt exactly like a juggling act, one that his arms were too sluggish and uncoordinated to accomplish without injuring himself beyond all recognition.

He strode down the hallway, booted feet sinking into carpet so thick and springy it was like walking on moss in a secluded woodland, his normally sure footed swagger compromised by the way his legs couldn't seem to follow his commands properly – as if vital roadworks were taking place on the main highway between brain and limbs, for which cumbersome and circuitous diversions were in place and disrupting traffic.

More than once he found his shoulder brushing against the wall as his legs decided to veer from the course set by his eyes.

He felt like crap – knew he looked it too. Knew he should probably just have accepted the fact that Sam wanted to stay with his friends and be done with it. It really would have saved him a lot of bother in the long run. He could have eaten the meal Zach and Rebecca were doubtless preparing in their kitchen right at that moment, could have had a long, languorous shower, and crawled into one of the marshmallow-like beds.

He didn't really know what he was doing, didn't know where the hell he thought he was going. There was no real planning or foresight, he'd just had to get out. A fight or flight response so archetypal it was embarrassing.

He'd just had to escape the poisonous air between himself and his brother before it suffocated him.

He'd friggin' known Sam still had his panties in a twist after Chicago, couldn't believe he hadn't seen this coming. Why hadn't he nipped it in the bud there and then in that alleyway? But then again, he'd thought he _had_. He'd thought Sam had got it.

Apparently not.

Apparently Sam was too busy resenting his big brother for anything and everything he'd ever done, was too busy bleating about being ordered around to realise that all Dean wanted to do was keep him safe, to keep his _family_ safe. Didn't Sam realise their family mattered more to his brother than life itself? Dean had been making unpopular decisions all his life, and could normally handle the flak that was dished out in response, but this time he'd taken too much.

Dean never wanted his little brother to know how much that decision had cost him.

Reaching the end of the hallway, he chanced a peek down the stairwell. When it wriggled and squirmed sickeningly before his eyes he decided to opt for the elevator – even though they were only on the second floor, and Dean regarded using an elevator for any height less than five floors to be a blatant cop-out.

Jabbing impatiently at the ground floor button, he found himself imagining it was Zach's face he was pummelling instead. Sammy had been right about one thing: Dean had been tussling with his brother's friend ever since he'd walked into Sam's hospital room and been faced with one gigantic, inescapable epiphany.

He'd inadvertently stumbled across a fact that seemed to taint every thought, memory, hope and fear he'd had about his relationship with his brother over the past four years since Sam had left for college, seemed to leech away the colour leaving a depressing black and white picture devoid of life or happiness. He'd thought Sam had cut himself off because he was ashamed, so desperate for his _normal life_ that there was no room for a decidedly _abnormal_ older brother. And that had hurt. Badly.

But what was infinitely worse, the realisation that left him questioning everything that had ever been important to him, every laugh he'd shared with Sam, every moment he'd outwardly derided but secretly cherished, was the recognition that Sam simply hadn't needed him.

He hadn't needed his big brother because he'd already had one. He'd had Zach.

_Sam's like my little brother_. That had told Dean everything he'd needed to know.

If he was being truly honest with himself, the reason he hadn't wanted to stay with the Warrens was that he just didn't think he could handle watching the two of them making eyes at each other all night. And the very fact that Sam had wanted to stay at the apartment rather than leave with Dean had seemed to reinforce the older man's fear that that his little brother was choosing Zach.

And how friggin' immature did that sound? Honestly, he was like a jealous child.

But he'd felt that if he wasn't a big brother, then what was the point of his very existence? He had nothing left to offer. The one job his father had bestowed upon him, had trusted him to carry out faithfully, he'd failed. And for once it was not because he was an incompetent buffoon, but simply because Sam favoured someone else.

Yet another flaming stick he couldn't afford to let slip from his fingers. He thought he might actually die of shame if Sam ever caught wind of it. No, this was one he was definitely taking to the grave.

The really galling part of it all was that Dean could see why Sam would gravitate towards Zach, he was a decent guy and Dean liked him despite his best efforts. If Sammy had wanted to pick a brother out of a catalogue, it would likely have been the dark-haired man, or someone similar. Sam wanted a picture perfect life, with a white picket fence, and tame family barbecues in the back yard. He wanted normal. Zach was unfailingly, unapologetically normal.

He'd be able to give Sam something Dean never could.

And then there was Dean's latest failure. The list was becoming so long now that the hunter thought it might have filled an entire library, let alone a single book.

He could see Michael Edelman's superlatively wholesome face smiling out at him from the poster he'd pinned to the noticeboard that afternoon, only his features were distorting slowly, eyes widening in terror, mouth twisting into an agonised grimace until it was Jake's terrified face he was seeing instead.

The utter helplessness he felt was like a poison his mind immediately strove to reject, like a foreign organ attacked by an immune system. He couldn't stand it. Action was as hard-wired in his psyche as a string of code was in a software program. Powerlessness simply did not compute.

That boy was going to die, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. And the very fact that he was scurrying away from Sam's temper tantrum when he should have been fighting to the last gasp to save Edelman made him feel like the most self-indulgent, pathetic sonofabitch in the world.

Finally the elevator doors slid open onto the ridiculous grandiosity of the arena-sized entrance atrium, and Dean stepped out onto the slippery marble flooring, feeling as if he was the star act being revealed to a stadium of thousands. There was no one else to notice his regal exit however, and he felt strangely alone somehow, in this imposing chamber.

He skated to the door, the shiny surface lending him a gracefulness his tired limbs alone could never have hoped to emulate, and made his escape into the oppressive humidity of the California evening. Despite the cheerful illumination of the surrounding street lamps, the darkness seemed to press at him from all sides, so that he felt as if he was being swallowed by a black hole.

Taking a deep breath, and wincing when the hot air left a burning track down his throat, he trudged along the pathway, boots scuffing at the concrete as his feet failed to gain enough clearance with his stride, to where he'd parked the Impala. Reluctant to relinquish his parking space, but desperate nonetheless to feel the comfort and freedom of being in his beloved car, he paused at the driver door, hand resting with ostensible casualness against the frame but in reality taking more weight than Dean would like to have admitted.

He sighed, wiping away the sweat that had already formed on his brow and glanced up and down the empty street, unnerved slightly by the charged silence that seemed to permeate the air. There was something anticipatory in the atmosphere, almost tangible in it's potency.

But his trained eye could discern nothing of concern. The street as innocuous and unassuming in darkness as it was in daylight.

But still, there was something there he couldn't put his finger on.

Trying to dispel the illusion, he gave himself a small shake, surprised when his legs nearly buckled beneath him, and he only avoided going down by clinging madly to the Impala's roof. He remained stooped for several beats before finally gathering the strength to pull himself up into what passed for a standing position, but in reality involved the Impala supporting most of his weight.

He really should go back up to the apartment. Earlier at the hospital, he'd sniped at Sam for trying to tell him how to take care of himself. He'd boldly stated that he knew what he could handle. If he'd been listening to his own claims, he would have abandoned this silly venture and traipsed back inside, tail between his legs.

But pride, his old, faithful friend simply wouldn't let him. He and pride went way back. They didn't always get along, in fact more often than not the jerk led him astray, but it was usually with the best of intentions. In Dean's weakened state pride was starting to sound pretty damn reasonable.

Then there was petulance, more of an acquaintance than a true friend, but they'd crossed paths many times before. And petulance was tired after the day's events, it needed time to regroup after it's lengthy outing. That was fine by Dean.

The real clincher though, was exhaustion. For something that appeared to spend so much time leeching the life out of him, it seemed to be shouting the most energetically. All at once the journey to the elevator seemed to rival an expedition to the North Pole, the elevator ride becoming akin to scaling Everest.

Feeling thoroughly browbeaten Dean turned back towards his car, and stuffed a hand into his jeans pocket, fingers searching for the tell-tale metallic jaggedness of the key.

A shuffling sound stilled his hand.

Whirling unsteadily, his skittish eyes scanned his surroundings, the sudden thrumming of his heart muffling all other sound as adrenaline whipped it into a frenzy. There was no one around, the street was as empty as it had been when he'd first exited the apartment block. Cursing his uncharacteristic jitters, he turned back towards the Impala.

There it was again, a combination of scuffing and rustling this time. He definitely hadn't imagined it.

He glanced towards the gloomy alleyway that ran between the Warren's apartment block and it's nondescript neighbour, it's unobtrusive entrance suddenly ominous in the inky blackness that the tentacles of light from the street lamps couldn't quite reach. It was the most obvious source of the noise, there being all manner of scavenging vermin littering these types of urban areas at night. In all likelihood it was some mangy cat searching out a meal among decaying household detritus and rotting food.

In all likelihood...

Nonetheless, Dean felt his brow fold into a frown as he considered the suddenly sinister passageway. Better to check it out. Sam was upstairs, and Dean couldn't quite rid himself of the notion that he was still in danger. If there was something, or someone lurking down there with designs on his little brother, Dean intended to take them out.

Or maybe he was just being over-cautious. But at least he could curse himself for his overactive imagination from the safety of the Impala once he had checked that there was really nothing there.

His fatigue seemed to lift from him like a bridal veil as he stalked towards the alleyway, senses sharpening as conscious thought relinquished control to the more automatic mechanisms ingrained by years of his father's boot camp training. His limbs moved of their own volition, as if dancing to an innately choreographed routine, slithering stealthily to the mouth of the alley and edging around the corner.

He pulled his cellphone from his jacket pocket and gripped it tightly as he peered into the gloom, one finger hovering over the speed dial that would connect him with his brother. If things went south fast, at least he'd be able to warn him.

When his eyes had adjusted to the lack of illumination, he was able to discern the shapes of several dumpsters against the farthest wall where the alleyway turned a corner, huddled together conspiratorially like gossiping women. Apart from a few raggedy pieces of scrunched up newspaper, discarded in their obsolescence, there was nothing else to be seen.

Everything was still, not even the air seemed to touch this place, like it existed in a bell jar vacuum. He'd almost turned back again when the noise reached him once more. But now that he was closer, with his senses on high alert, he thought that the sound might have been coming from around the corner.

With a foreboding he couldn't place, but had learned over the years to trust almost like a member of his own family, he pulled out his favourite Colt .45 from where he had stuffed it roughly into his waistband – relishing the near invincible feeling it always evoked - and held it rigidly before him as he advanced up the passageway.

He'd just reached the corner at the far end when the sound suddenly evaporated, not a trace of it remaining on the air that reached his keen ears, leaving him with an unexpected feeling of disorientation. He flattened himself against the wall at the edge of the corner, his breaths slow and shallow as he channelled the full focus of his attention to what lay unseen around the bend.

The cellphone was becoming slippery in his sweaty grasp, but the gun was welded to his hand, an extension of his own arm. He mentally counted to five before swinging around the corner as if on a hinge, gun extended before him, his protector against the unknown. But there was nothing there, just a rickety mesh fence hanging hopelessly prostrate between the walls.

Dean frowned in confusion, gun lowering slightly at the seeming lack of immediate threat. He'd come to regret that later.

A gloved hand suddenly slammed across his mouth with an audible slap, gagging his yell of surprise as he was yanked backwards with startling strength. The reverse momentum robbed him of his balance and allowed his attacker to throw an arm around his torso, trapping him in a steel embrace as he was dragged backwards with all the resistance of a rag doll.

The smell of leather assailed his nostrils as the hand pressed harder against his mouth, rendering his grunting protests utterly futile. His arms flailed as he was slammed abruptly against the wall, the cellphone dropping from his fragile grip and skittering to the ground. The force of hitting the wall stunned him momentarily before he brought up an elbow and tried to dislodge his assailant with a well-timed jab to the abdomen, but there was barely a twitch in response, the arms holding him with seemingly superhuman strength. He'd have had more luck kicking the wall down.

All of a sudden, like a drowning swimmer spotting a lifebelt, he remembered that he was still holding his gun. He struggled against his attacker's grip, attempting to twist his arm around and point the gun at the leg pressing him further into the wall, but his manoeuvre was easily anticipated. The Colt was plucked from his grasp as easily as if he'd been a child with a lollipop.

He barely had a second to acknowledge just how badly things had gone down, just how much he had screwed up, before something hard slammed down on the back of his head.

As the swirling whirlpool of darkness welcomed him into its depths, Dean's last coherent thought was that maybe, just maybe, he'd been wrong about a couple of things.

* * *

><p><em>So, you've all waited a long time for Dean to go and get himself kidnapped...hope it didn't disappoint! ;) <em>

_Any comments welcome!_


	10. A Rush of Blood to the Head

Hi everyone!

Thanks for all the lovely reviews - I really do appreciate all of them!

Didn't want to leave you hanging too long, so hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 10 – A Rush of Blood to the Head**

It took more than few minutes for the painkillers to work their healing magic on Sam Winchester's headache, but eventually he felt the vice clamped around his skull ease slightly, and he started to believe that his neck might actually hold its weight. The cool smoothness of the table was soothing beneath his folded arms, and after a while the chill spread up through his body and doused the flames of anger in his breast, though the embers continued to glow threateningly.

With his head clear of pain's befuddling spell, he found he was more able to dissect the situation between himself and his brother. After his initial assessment of the data, he had come to a simple conclusion: things were bad. They'd been sniping for days now, messy arguments sparked at the slightest cause that never seemed resolved – mostly because Dean would refuse point blank to enter into anything remotely resembling heartfelt discussion.

Like now. He'd just walked out without a word. After everything that had happened the previous night.

And the most frustrating thing was not just that he'd walked out, but that he'd managed to worm his way out of giving Sam the opportunity to rage at him about what had happened in Chicago. It had been festering for days, its poison polluting his very soul. He wanted Dean to admit that he had been wrong, wanted him to apologise for ruining his little brother's chance at getting closer to the demon. He realised that every gripe he'd had with his brother since that night could be traced back to that point.

Dammit, he wanted Dean to stop making decisions for him without even having the good grace to consult him first. He wanted some control over his life. Being back in this town, being back around these people who had once been so close to him, had only served to remind him of the freedom he'd given up by running off with Dean. He'd thrown away his autonomy, discarded his free will like a broken toy. And he realised how much he missed it.

He was already dreading his brother's return, knowing things would either kick off again between them, or that Dean would just freeze him out. Neither were particularly appetising alternatives.

"Hey, Sam?" Rebecca called from the kitchen, her tone brittle from forced cheerfulness. "You up for some food? I made Caesar salad!"

Sam was actually surprised when his stomach growled in response, and ruefully remembered that he had no idea when he'd last eaten. His headache had been happily hoovering up any crumbs of appetite that might have spilled out over the past few hours, but now that he'd been granted a reprieve, it sounded like the greatest idea he'd ever heard. Especially when his friends had gone to the effort of putting together one of his favourite meals. Jess' recipe had always been the best though, and even the recollection of it was enough to set his mouth watering, but Rebecca's definitely came a close second. The young hunter smiled softly as bitter-sweet memories flashed in a film reel before his eyes.

"Uh, yeah, thanks!" He pushed his chair back with a scrape and rose to his feet, pleasantly surprised when the room didn't spin. "Can I help with anything?"

"What? No, no, you've been hurt Sam! Let us look after you for a while" Rebecca pulled open the door connecting the kitchen to the dining room and shot him a kind smile. "It'll just be a few minutes if you want to freshen up"

Sam did.

When dinner was served, Sam had to stop himself from groaning in pleasure as he tore into his salad, his hunger having grown exponentially from mere pangs to full-on ravenousness in the space of washing up in one of the Warrens' many bathrooms – each one seeming as large as some motel rooms he'd stayed in.

He settled for a blissful "Man, Becca this is incredible!" as she laughed at his obvious enjoyment.

There was an amicable silence as the three of them concentrated on their meal, settling into the comfortable groove they'd always had before Jessica's murder had ruptured their shared rhythm and set Sam off course to his own beat. But all too soon it was being broken.

"Sooooo..." Zach began, the word drawn out portentously. Once he had everyone's attention he continued, his eyes searching out Sam's. "What exactly _was_ that back there?"

There was no question as to what he was referring to.

"I'm so sorry about Dean, guys. He shouldn't have just walked out like that" Sam paused to take another mouthful of salad. "He didn't want to stay here, wanted me to go with him. He's such a control freak"

"Is that what the scene back at the hospital was all about?" Zach raised his eyebrows, clearly remembering Sam's covert signal during their conversation with Dean.

The lack of confusion on Rebecca's face told Sam that Zach had clued her in at some point. He wasn't quite sure how he felt about that, about them discussing his relationship with his brother behind his back. But he merely ducked his head in acknowledgement.

"Does he do that often?" Zach pressed, and Sam was reminded of his concern that first night. _You guys really getting on okay?_

Had it been that obvious, even then?

Sam's snorted response said more than his words otherwise might have. It was impossible to verbalise the emotions he'd felt over the years, the nights as a child he'd yearned for freedom while being terrified to leave the people he loved, the relief when he'd finally found the strength and the accompanying guilt at wanting something for himself at the expense of his family's happiness. At Dean's happiness.

Their conversation was abruptly interrupted at that point when the phone started to ring. Rebecca exchanged a glance with Zach, before excusing herself from the room to answer it.

"Sam, you never talked about Dean when you were at college here. Is that why?" Zach seemed genuinely confused, and Sam realised that his behaviour concerning his brother had been more than a little contradictory over the past few days. Even _he_ couldn't unravel the complex tapestry of feelings he had about his brother, and how they wove together. The fiercest love, the consuming desire to protect him, the need to have him at his side; battling against the army of lingering resentment, his longing for control, his brother's irritating foibles and his wish for normality. Each regiment was so enmeshed with the others it was impossible to separate the strands.

He rubbed a hand through his shaggy crop, considering his answer. He'd never liked talking about his brother with anyone, feeling that betraying the sacred nature of their relationship was something akin to blasphemy, but Zach had always been someone he'd confided in during those years of Dean's absence. His _enforced_ absence, Sam corrected himself.

"No, that's not why" He admitted with a pregnant sigh, not sure he could even justify the way he had cut ties with his family, with his brother and the best friend he'd ever had.

"I wanted out of the family business. Dean didn't. I wanted to be safe, and he was always going to bring danger with him. It was never about cutting him off, somehow that's just how it ended up. Every time he called, he'd tell me about whatever hunt he and my Dad were on, it was like he never wanted to listen to what _I_ was doing, like it didn't even matter. I could always tell when he'd been hurt, even though he'd never admit it, and it used to drive me crazy. And then he started asking me to come back, even just for a weekend, to help out with one thing or another. I felt so bad for saying 'no' every time that one day I flipped out and told him to stop calling. And he did"

"Sounds like you're still mad at him for all that?" Zach tentatively suggested.

"I guess I am, although I know I didn't handle things the way I should have. I know I hurt him" Sam swallowed against the lump that had formed in his throat without him noticing. "I just wanted my own life. Dean and my Dad have been bossing me around since...forever, and then after Jess...after it all fell apart, it was like we just went back to the way we were before"

"So why do you stay with him?" The question was reasonable enough, but it seemed to Sam like his answer would be of seminal importance.

"Because when all's said and done, he's my family. My Dad's off god knows where...Dean's been there for me, through everything. He's my _brother_" _And I love the stubborn jerk_. He left the words unspoken, but they were implicit in all that he _did_ say. "I just don't get why he tries to control me all the time"

"Can I say something?" Zach asked cautiously, looking worried that he might regret being so forthright.

"Of course" Sam didn't hesitate.

"Well, I don't know Dean. I mean, I just met the guy, but from what I've seen...he might be a little heavy-handed about it, but he worries about you Sam. It's a habit us big brothers find pretty hard to shake, even when deep down we know you guys can take care of yourselves. I mean, when I was framed...when I was in jail...I wasn't worried so much for myself, more about how I wasn't going to be able to be there for Becca"

Sam dropped his gaze as he pondered this. Had he completely missed the point? He'd spent his whole life feeling so constrained that he hadn't really stopped to think that it might have been fear and love that drove it all. He frowned, measuring how Dean's propensity to dish out orders seemed to increase in direct proportion to how much danger he thought Sam was in.

Damn.

"Okay, I get that" Sam conceded. "It's just, one of the reasons I wanted to come here so badly was because I wanted to be in charge over my own life" And that included being able to pursue the demon in the way _he_ chose.

"Yeah, and you're entitled to that. No question. But look at things from Dean's perspective. The guy would do anything for you Sam, it doesn't take a genius to work it out, and sometimes that translates into over-protectiveness. I mean, it can't have been easy for him to let you come back here, but it sounds like he dropped everything to follow you"

Sam grimaced internally when he remembered how he'd manipulated that very devotion in order to force his brother to come with him. Why was it that he could use the knowledge when it suited him, and then conveniently forget it when it didn't fit in with his plans?

"I get where he's coming from Sam. I never really told you this, but our parents weren't around much when Becca and I were growing up. They loved us, sure, but there was always some gala or charity dinner, or an invitation from friends in Europe or whatever. I mean, we had a nanny, but it wasn't really the same. At that time it seemed like it was me and Becca against everyone else. I guess I felt pretty responsible for her. Sometimes all she had to do was _sneeze_ and I'd be dialling 911!" He smiled self-deprecatingly at the reminiscence.

"I didn't know" Sam murmured, finding his affinity for the other man growing stronger. He'd always thought Zach had been privileged with everything _he'd_ never been lucky enough to get. It made his own convoluted relationship with his family seem not so unusual after all. "It was the same for Dean and me. Our mom died when he was four and when I was just a baby, and Dad wasn't around much after. Dean's kind of been both parents rolled into one ever since"

Damn, damn, damn. This wasn't supposed to be happening. He was meant to be adding kindling to his ire to stop the flame from sputtering out, not slowly coming to the inconvenient and guilt-inducing realisation that Dean had basically devoted his whole life to raising him. All of a sudden, as if Zach's revelation had unlocked a long forgotten doorway, Sam became the unwilling recipient of all the remembered times that Dean had subjugated his own wants, his own dreams, for those of his family.

Remorsefully, he remembered some of the conversations he'd had with Dean during and after that awful nightmare with Max Miller. The epiphany had been all about his father then, and about rediscovering his sense of perspective on how John Winchester had raised the two of them. It occurred to him now, just how little he had recognised the role his brother had played. Just how much he had dismissed him.

_We're lucky we had Dad...All things considered, we turned out okay. Thanks to him._

_You have something Max didn't._

_What, you mean Dad? Cos he's not here Dean._

_No, me._

He squirmed uncomfortably. How could he have been so oblivious? He shouldn't have been thanking his _father_; he should have been thanking his _brother_.

He could not pinpoint one single time that Dean had truly taken something for himself, had put his own needs first. It had been all about serving those of his family. And then with disturbing clarity, he finally got it. He felt guilt's stabbing pain in his side as the whole situation became so obvious that he wondered how he could ever have questioned it.

Dean's family was the most important thing to him in the world. All he'd ever wanted to do was protect them, no matter what the cost to himself. Sam felt the shame engulf him as he began to recognise, for the first time it seemed, that it had never been about control. It had been about doing what he thought was right for his family. That was why he'd told their father to leave. And now that Sam had finally come to his senses, it was as if the floodgates had opened – his mind accusingly presenting him with all the evidence he'd arrogantly disregarded in his temper.

_They're gonna use us to get to him...Dad's vulnerable when he's with us. He... he's stronger without us around_.

_Dad it was a trap. I didn't know, I'm sorry._

_Why do you think I drag you everywhere? Huh? I mean, why do you think I came and got you at Stanford in the first place?_

_'Cause Dad was in trouble. 'Cause you wanted to find the thing that killed Mom._

_Yes, that, but it's more than that, man. You and me and Dad, I mean, I want us to... I want us to be together again. I want us to be a family again. _

As if it was possible for him to feel any more of a jerk. If he'd thought the lump in his throat had been bad before, it was practically suffocating him now. He tried to take a breath, shuddering as he felt the beginnings of tears pricking at his eyes.

He stared unseeingly into the remains of his dinner, systematically whipping himself for all of the nasty things he'd said over the past few days, for the ways he'd been unjustly punishing his brother. Dean was far from perfect, and Sam still thought he was wrong about their father being safer without them, but he hadn't been the ogre Sam had made him out to be.

Dean dreaded being alone, he'd admitted as much during their blow-out argument the previous night. The only thing he'd apparently ever wanted was for his family to stay together. Why had Sam never considered how hard it must have been for him to let his father – the man he idolised with almost religious fervour – walk away like that?

Sam realised he must have been silent for some time when a hand waved in front of his face. Jumping slightly, he noticed Zach had moved to stand next to him, and had apparently been trying for several moments to catch his attention.

"Huh?" He blurted groggily, feeling as if he'd just been pulled from a deep sleep.

"You okay, Sam?" Zach's features were drawn in concern, but all of a sudden Sam found he couldn't be bothered with him in that moment. He needed to speak to Dean. Right now.

"I gotta call him" He muttered, barely aware that he had ignored his friend's question. No he was friggin' _not_ okay. Wouldn't be anywhere in the region of okay until he'd sorted all this out. He stood abruptly and patted his jeans pockets for the new cellphone Dean had brought him earlier along with the duffel of clothes, before remembering that he'd left it in his jacket.

He pushed blindly past Zach and hurried along the hallway to the room he'd claimed for his own earlier, aware as he passed Rebecca's room that she was still on the phone when he heard her giggling through the closed door. His jacket was lying where he'd conscientiously laid it earlier, it's careful arrangement serving as a mocking reminder of how Dean had casually hung his on the back of his chair. Even then his big brother had been giving off vibes of impermanence.

He pulled his phone from the pocket and swiftly pressed the speed dial with practised ease. His heart thumped insistently as he counted the rings.

Voicemail.

He tried not to give his disappointment a platform, but someone seemed to have alerted the media nonetheless. Briefly he considered leaving a message, but was forced to admit to himself that he didn't want to sound like a lovesick puppy begging his brother to come home so they could make up after their fight. Dean wouldn't like hearing it any more than Sam would like saying it.

No, the missed call would be enough to get his brother back. He was sure of it.

* * *

><p>The Warren's living room wasn't quite as intimidating as the dining room - the slightly rumpled cushions on the couches, and DVDs scattered on the rug like sacrificial offerings before the plasma screen TV betraying the fact that this room appeared to actually be used with some regularity. These small blemishes didn't detract however, from the dispassionately tasteful way the room was put together; from the shiny black leather of the couches, to the stained wood floors and the disconcertingly futuristic gadgets.<p>

Sam had spent so much time in motel rooms where the modernity clock seemed to have stopped somewhere back in the 1970s, that when Zach had first shown him the room it had taken him several moments to adjust – to realise that they hadn't stepped from the immaculate hallway into the twenty-second century by mistake.

But at that moment he could barely have said what room he was actually in. He could feel the smooth leather couch beneath him, creaking as he fidgeted agitatedly, but his entire world had narrowed to the width of a cellphone screen. He'd been staring at it for close to an hour now, leg bouncing restlessly; the kinetic energy potential that worry had been busy collecting inside him needing some form of outlet before his body exploded from the tension.

Dean hadn't called.

If pressed, Sam could probably have invented a thousand reasons why he hadn't heard from his brother – each one more unlikely than the next, and none of them involving anything remotely dangerous. But why waste the energy when he knew, just friggin' _knew_, that something was wrong.

He couldn't have said what, or why. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that he'd nearly been murdered the previous night. Maybe whoever had come after Sam had decided to go after his brother instead.

Or maybe it was because he remembered the dizzying way Dean had swayed when he'd pushed himself up from the dining room chair, the way he'd grabbed onto the carved piece of furniture like it was some sort of crutch, the latent fatigue in his normally smooth motion.

Dean was still injured, dammit, and Sam had pushed and prodded until he hadn't been able to take any more. His brother was out there somewhere, most likely staggering stubbornly around, unable to fully protect himself. And it was all his fault.

Okay, that was it. He was calling again, dignity be damned!

Voicemail. Again. And again for the next three times Sam jammed his finger on the speed dial.

He was dimly aware of his friends perched on the opposite couch, eyes tracking him with nervous concern as if he was having some sort of breakdown and would require immediate sedation. Which he would, if he didn't get hold of his brother soon.

Unbidden, images of sitting restlessly in that dreary bus station in Indiana waiting frantically for Dean to answer his phone floated tauntingly before his eyes. The older man had been silent for several hours then, but Sam had always wondered what he might have prevented if he'd just gone after his brother after the first few missed calls.

His heart clenched with a jarring thump as he remembered stumbling across his brother lashed to a tree in that creepy apple orchard outside Burkittsville, a helpless sacrificial victim to the homicidal scarecrow god that resided there. If he'd been any later...

Or if he'd just swallowed his pride and stayed with him, rather than walking away, it might never have come that close in the first place. For all the elder Winchester liked to think of himself as the protector of their partnership, it seemed he could hardly go _anywhere_ by himself without trouble befalling him. Sometimes Sam felt like the bodyguard of the relationship, like a harried parent rushing to remove all sharp implements from the path of an errant toddler.

"Still nothing?" Rebecca's brows were pinched into a textbook picture of worry, but the loaded glance she shared with her brother revealed it as the sham it was. Sam could tell they both thought he was bordering on unhinged; a grown man fretting over the fact that his – also grown - big brother hadn't answered his calls for a whole hour. But then they didn't know how danger dogged his grown big brother's heels like an over-enthusiastic puppy.

"No" Sam muttered darkly, eyes boring into the cellphone screen, willing it to come to life in his hand. He'd even have happily accepted some sort of psychic intervention right then, if it would only tell him where Dean was. He squeezed his eyes closed in frustration, ignoring the haunting multi-coloured after-effect on his vision from staring so long at the cellphone screen.

"Look, man, I get that you're worried...but don't you think he's probably just in one of the bars downtown? Maybe the noise is so loud he can't hear his phone. Or maybe he's just ignoring you cos he's still pissed" Zach sat forward, hands gesturing earnestly as the leather groaned jarringly from beneath him at his movement.

"He wouldn't do that!" Sam snapped, gaze whipping up from the phone to focus accusingly on his friends. "When we're on a case we _always_ answer the phone. Too many things can go wrong. If he's not answering, it's because he literally _can't_"

At their dumbfounded expressions, his taut features loosened off as he relented and explained. "Look, the last time something like this happened...the last time he repeatedly didn't answer his phone...he nearly ended up being sacrificed to a Pagan god, okay? I almost didn't get to him in time" He swallowed convulsively, trying to ward off the nausea at the thought of what he might have found in that orchard if he'd been a few minutes later.

Dean had told him about the leathery tattoo on the scarecrow's arm.

Sam knew he'd gotten through to Zach and Rebecca by the twin slack-jawed expressions on their faces. It must have been difficult for them to accept, but at that point he couldn't have cared less – and that in itself told him just how little all of that now mattered to him. On some level he knew it was a miracle they hadn't kicked him out, especially when he kept dropping bombshells about all the horrors that were really out there in the world. And he was grateful. Truly. But when Dean's whereabouts was a mystery he couldn't worry about walking on eggshells around his friends.

"R-really?" Rebecca stuttered, which Sam found surprising since _she_ was the one who'd come face to face with a friggin' shapeshifter, and had watched it transform before her eyes.

He nodded tersely, and shot a compulsive glance back towards his phone – pointless really, since he already had the ring tone on the loudest setting.

Unable to sit any longer, he began pacing the room, his long strides eating up the distance between the walls as he settled into a back and forth rhythm, the phone plastered to his ear throughout. He closed his eyes in frustration as it taunted him with the voicemail every time. Only the vain hope that his brother would call back stopped him from smashing it into pieces against a perfectly manicured wall.

Becoming aware that his pacing was getting him nowhere, not to mention upsetting his friends, he forcibly slowed his gait and wandered to the window – more out of reflex than out of any genuine belief that he'd see anything on the street outside. The anxiety was beginning to twist at his insides now, writhing and churning revoltingly.

But the second he looked out the window, that ceased to be a problem as his stomach dropped straight to his feet, his body going rigid at the sight staring back at him. The Impala was sitting contentedly outside the apartment block like a faithful sentry. For a moment he felt the warmth of relief flow through him at the car's comforting presence, before it suddenly turned his blood to ice in his veins.

He remembered the millennia spent circling the block earlier that afternoon, Dean grumbling and grouching about the lack of available parking spaces, and then his brother's eventual infectious jubilation at finding one just in front of the main door. Parking could be like a fight to the death in this neighbourhood. The instant one person abandoned their space, there were always fifty others waiting to scrap for the meagre piece of asphalt left.

The Impala was sitting exactly where they had parked it hours earlier. It hadn't moved.

Rebecca was at his side instantly, her grip claw-like on his arm. "What is it?"

He wordlessly pointed to the Impala, the street lights reflecting off the shiny, metallic fenders and winking mockingly up at them.

Zach materialised at his other side. "Maybe he walked..." He suggested hopefully. But it was a feeble excuse, and they all knew it.

"Where would he walk to? There's nothing here!" Sam's Dean-o-meter had already bypassed 'extreme concern' several seconds ago and was well on its way to 'full-blown panic'. Dean didn't like walking, had whined irritatingly about that very fact to Sam only a couple of nights ago as they'd headed to Pedro's. Even if he'd wanted to go somewhere to think, it usually involved alcohol and a bar stool. There was nowhere nearby that would fit those requirements.

Not to mention the fact Dean could barely stay upright. "No, he's in trouble. We've gotta go look for him"

Sam was in the bedroom throwing his jacket around his shoulders before he was aware of having even moved, but even the brief second that that information took to register in his brain was a second wasted. He needed to be outside already.

Barely pausing to check that his friends were following him, he wrenched open the apartment door that Dean had closed so tersely just hours before, not stopping to wince or apologise when he heard it ricochet off the interior wall. He was dimly conscious of footsteps behind him, calling his name, entreating him to wait. He ignored it all.

He practically threw himself down the polished metallic stairs, not wanting to stand around waiting for the elevator. Besides, Dean always called him a pansy if he took an elevator for anything lower than the fifth floor. He tried to smile at the memory, but sometimes there was a fine line between laughing and crying, especially where Dean was concerned.

_I'm not gonna die in a hospital where the nurses aren't even hot_.

Narrowly avoiding falling flat on his face as he tripped down the final few steps, he skidded along the marble ice-rink in the entrance foyer and nearly had to grab the main door to avoid landing on his ass. He smiled involuntarily as he remembered Dean's muttered comment when they'd first arrived about the whole place being a lawsuit waiting to happen. His brother's derision had irritated him at the time, but now he would have given anything to hear the condescending phrase as often as Dean wanted to say it.

A dishevelled looking Zach and Rebecca caught up with him as he righted his balance and they exited together, finally coming to a pause on the pathway, the urgent rush to get out of the apartment giving way to a sudden aimlessness now that they were actually on the street.

Sam strode forward to lay a diagnostic hand on the Impala's hood, the test confirming his earlier fears. "It's cold" He pivoted back to face his friends, at a loss as to how they were going to proceed. He glanced up and down the street, hoping irrationally that Dean would somehow pop up from behind one of the parked cars and laugh at him for being such a girl.

He waited a beat anyway, but there was nothing.

Mouth twisting wretchedly, he looked almost pleadingly from Zach to Rebecca, as if expecting them to click their fingers and produce Dean out of thin air. All they could do, however, was stare helplessly back at him. Following his lead.

He'd have given anything for one of Dean's orders in that moment, for his brother to step up and take the helm from his grossly incompetent grasp.

Clenching his jaw, he surveyed his surroundings once more, trying to decide which way his brother might have wandered – for although he was sure Dean hadn't intentionally gone walkabout, he could have staggered somewhere and passed out. His insides clenched at the the image of his brother slumped in a random doorway, vulnerable and defenceless. He had to find him.

Pressing the phone to his ear, he desperately tried his brother's cell once more, not out of any real expectation of reaching him, but because it felt like the only tangible link he had – aside from the stone cold Impala. As he counted the rings in his head, he noticed Zach's expression change slightly, gaining an alertness it had lacked before.

"What?" He demanded, not caring that he was edging towards the hysterical.

Zach's gaze snapped round to meet his, and he held up a finger to still Sam's questions. "I thought-I thought I heard something"

"What? What did you hear?" Sam ignored his friend's gesture and stepped intimidatingly into his personal space.

It occurred to Sam, in the minuscule part of his mind that wasn't relentlessly focused on Dean, that Zach might be somewhat taken aback at this unusual show of aggression from his normally reserved old friend. A few months ago – hell, even a few hours ago – that would have mattered to Sam. But he was surprised at how little it bothered him.

The only outward sign that Zach had noticed his friend's display was a slight narrowing of his eyes, but otherwise he remained focussed on the sound he had heard. "Shhh! I think it was coming from over there somewhere" He gestured to a shady alleyway that separated the Warren's apartment complex from it's almost indistinguishable neighbour. "Try Dean's phone again"

Sam frowned questioningly, but at Zach's impatient "Come on!" he did what he was told.

"I think...it sounds...Sam it sounds like a ring tone" Sam was moving before Zach had even finished speaking, dawn breaking in his mind with the jolting realisation that the tone was his brother's. His emotions ticked back and forth like a metronome, not seeming to know whether they wanted to flood his body with relief or paralyse it with fear. As the metronome slowed, the resulting combination was an odd mix of floating giddiness, his limbs feeling strangely disconnected from his body.

Dean was in that alleyway. He wasn't missing. But what state would Sam find him in?

The young hunter was at the mouth of the alleyway before his friends could even register his movement. He paused with catlike stealth, squinting into the gloom. Apart from a scrum of dumpsters at the far end, where the pathway turned a corner, and some partially disintegrated scraps of newspapers, Sam could see nothing of interest. There were no Dean-sized lumps sprawled on the rough concrete.

Sam wanted to breath a sigh of relief, but realised that his fears were so far from being allayed they weren't even in the same universe. There was something in the fetid air, something that tingled at the back of his neck and set off a series of chain reactions shuddering down his spine.

His keen senses picked up the presence of his friends behind him, unconsciously mapping their positions as he reached for the gun he had secreted in his waistband before his flight from the apartment. Dean had talked about having a 'feeling' back in Nebraska, a sensation that – as a hunter – he'd known to trust. Sam hadn't really got it, until now.

Zach and Rebecca gasped simultaneously as the weapon's sleek silver glinted in the lamplight, but he again dismissed their shock as acceptable collateral damage in his hunt for Dean. Gesturing to them to wait where they were, he began to take slow, measured steps into the shadows, gun pointed unhesitatingly in front of him. It took all of his self-control not to run helter-skelter into the depths of the alleyway screaming his brother's name, but that strange sensation had slammed his guard into position like an iron portcullis, forcing him to evaluate every step, every action.

The darkness enveloped him quickly, before he had even reached the halfway point. There had been no sound, not a hint of movement. He raised the cellphone handset to his ear once more, needing to pinpoint the location of his brother's phone. He couldn't hope to stumble across it in the surrounding murkiness.

Dean's signature tone blared out suddenly in the silence, and Sam barely stopped himself from startling, even though he had been expecting it. The small pinprick of light in the distance had the young hunter finally permitting himself to break into a run, fear for his brother loosening the restraining bonds of reason. He allowed the ringing to continue as he drew closer, slowing almost to a halt mere feet from the vibrating cell, eyeing it warily as though it was an unexploded bomb. The gun felt reassuring in his hand as his eyes traversed the surrounding area. He took a small step forward, gaze focused ahead of him.

If he'd taken a larger step he might have missed it, might have passed right over it.

His toe nudged against something hard on the scrubby concrete, shifting it with a tinny scrape. He froze, his heart – which had been happily toiling away unnoticed in the background – was now flinging itself up into his throat as if desperate to escape his body. Somehow he knew before he knew, as if the weight of the object alone was enough.

His caution for his own safety evaporated as he dropped to the ground and scrabbled in the darkness until his fingers closed around the object's dull coldness. Raising himself slowly from his crouch, he stared in horror at the item he now held. He didn't need the glow of a street lamp to enlighten him. He'd know it anywhere.

It was Dean's gun.

_Oh god._

Before his frantic mind could even make sense of this discovery, his probing fingers slipped across something tacky on the butt of his brother's beloved Colt. The coppery scent was almost enough to send him into a bout of retching there and then.

_Oh god!_ It couldn't be.

But it was.

Blood.

Oh god, this was bad.

A blood covered weapon, and no Dean.

He leapt forward, the confirmation that something terrible had happened to his brother sending a bolt of lightning through him, reanimating his body with a jerk as if he'd been wakened from a cryogenic chamber. Whipping round the corner, his eyes searched desperately for some sign of Dean, praying fervently that he would find him collapsed there. A hurt Dean was a terrifying prospect, but one he could deal with.

But a hurt _and _missing Dean...

_He's gotta be here! _Sam couldn't come to terms with the idea that he wouldn't find his brother, right there, right then. But there was nothing, and the sheer futility of his quest bore down on him like an out of control freight train. Dean wasn't there.

He was gone.

Sam felt the life drain out of him as the train finally slammed into him. He put his own gun away, Dean's still clutched possessively in his grasp as he stumbled back around the corner. He bent almost reverently to retrieve his brother's cellphone, blinking back the terrified tears that had leaked out uncontrollably as he clocked the number of missed calls displayed jauntily on the cheerful brightness of the screen. That information alone told him how long the phone had been lying there.

He found himself sinking to his knees, ignoring the stinging bite of the stony ground through his jeans as he stared unseeingly at the evidence in his hands. Nearly hyperventilating in his panic, he let his head tip forward, the motion almost sending him sprawling. His head was a smorgasbord of half-finished thoughts and terror-filled conclusions.

The only idea he could grasp onto, the one notion that chopped through the foliage of dizzying alarm, was that someone – or some_thing_ - had snatched his big brother. Someone had _hurt_ him, with his own gun. There wasn't enough blood to indicate a serious injury, and Sam was sure he'd have heard a gunshot, but who knew how badly he'd been wounded?

The anxiety for his brother's safety clawed at him, far more rapaciously than when he'd thought Dean might merely have fallen unconscious somewhere, shredding his insides into ribbons of agonising fear as his mind rattled through questions.

Why the hell had Dean entered this alleyway? With his gun drawn, no less? What the hell had happened here? Who had taken him?

Sam allowed himself to freak out for thirty whole seconds before he began pulling together the strands of self-control that had been ripped and frayed at the discovery of his brother's kidnapping. Weaving them together into a tight, rigid knot he forced himself back up onto his feet. The fear was bound up irrevocably within it, but now firmly under control. All he had to do was wait for anger to arrive, and he'd be all set.

"Guys?" He called out, proud of his efforts when his voice only quavered minutely.

It didn't take long for Zach and Rebecca to reach him, their hurried footsteps echoing in the confined space like the thunderclap of galloping hooves. "Sam! What is it? What did you find?" Rebecca breathed as she clutched reflexively onto her brother's arm.

Sam turned towards them, his jaw clenched. "I found his phone...and his gun. There's blood on the butt. I think someone knocked him out"

"What?" Zach sputtered in disbelief.

Sam's answer was cold. "Someone took my brother. And I'm going to find the sonofabitch that did this to him, and then I'm going to tear them apart"

When anger finally caught up, he welcomed it with the embrace of an old friend.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! We'll hear from Dean in the next one, so stay tuned!<em>

_Any comments welcome! :)_


	11. Only a Pawn in their Game

Hi everyone!

Thanks to all who reviewed - I continue to be amazed at how kind you all are! :)

I've tinkered with this so much over the past few days, and can't seem to get completely satisfied with it, but I probably never will, so up it goes! ;)

Enjoy!

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 11 – Only a Pawn in their Game**

Dean Winchester had always hated marching bands. He remembered one particular occasion when he'd been dragged along to a football game at one of the many homogeneous, instantly forgettable schools he and Sam had attended over the years. Most of the bland institutions barely even registered, few having any distinguishing features that actually captured the young hunter's perpetually wandering attention. This one however, the one with the friggin' marching band, had created a home for itself in a section of Dean's brain known as 'reasons why being normal sucks'.

He'd had to admit, even if Sammy hadn't made the team, that the cheerleaders had been a definite incentive to attend the game. He hadn't cared much for their routine - he knew nothing of these things - but he'd _definitely _appreciated the outfits, and the way they clung to the bodies wearing them...

Okay, off topic.

Generally he hated being around large crowds of people - especially during the kind of over the top production that usually characterised high school football games - but Sammy had been playing and Dean had resigned himself to the ordeal. What he hadn't expected, had been the marching band. A group of the geekiest looking chumps the elder Winchester had ever seen, proudly prancing across the pitch, buttons and brass instruments buffed and gleaming with anally retentive fastidiousness. As a self-confessed non-conformist, Dean had found the display of blatant uniformity deeply offensive, not to mention the fact that the music was some sort of horrendous cacophony of blaring trumpets and clacking drums.

The whole performance had been torture, and he hadn't let Sam forget it – as proud of his little brother as he had been. And he _had_ been. But Sam would never know that.

The pandemonium existing in Dean's head as his awareness slowly returned to him made the school's band sound like the tranquil girly music he'd once caught his little brother meditating to. That moment had acted as teasing fodder for weeks afterwards - Sam's mortification being too good to pass up. The thought of the jauntily trilling trumpets was now almost attractive in comparison to the catastrophic commotion that was clamouring between his ears.

He moaned as the thudding in his head seemed to vibrate downwards through his body like someone had struck a gong on the centre of his forehead, until even his toes were throbbing in time to the beat of his heart. Resting his head against the hard surface behind him, Dean suddenly realised that he was sitting propped up against something cold and sleekly curved. His arms were pinned awkwardly behind him, and as he attempted to move them into a more comfortable position, he abruptly recognised the unforgiving bite of the thick plastic that bound his wrists together.

Cable ties. Terrific.

Wrenching his sluggish eyes open, he saw his bare ankles similarly secured in front of him. He gave a token struggle against his restraints, knowing ultimately that it was useless – even if whoever had taken him hadn't removed all of his secreted weapons, he wouldn't have had a hope of reaching them. In the end, all he succeeded in doing was making himself breathless and aggravating the pounding behind his eyes.

He gave an involuntary gasp as a tender spot on the back of his skull rubbed against the polished pillar he was tied to, and the tell tale stickiness that trickled uncomfortably down his neck at the motion told him he was still bleeding. Not profusely, he noted, but enough to to indicate a sizeable gash.

Awesome.

What the hell had happened? He had a hazy memory of being attacked in the alleyway beside the Warren's apartment block, of the frustrating juggernaut-like imperviousness of his assailant as he'd been grabbed and manhandled easily backwards. He couldn't help but think that this had to be linked to the attempt on Sam's life the previous night. But why? Why had they taken _him _instead of trying to finish the job they'd started with Sam? Not that he wasn't glad the focus had apparently turned away from his little brother and onto himself.

Taking stock of his situation, his wavering eyes roved the room he was being held in. It was a large, square whitewashed space, with small bracketed lights tastelessly designed to look like dripping candles dotted at regular intervals around the smoothly plastered walls. The room was cold, clinical. But that wasn't what chilled Dean to the bone.

It was a ritual chamber.

Directly in front of him loomed the sinister stone outline of an ancient-looking, roughly hewn altar carved into a clumsy oblong shape, thick leather straps hanging menacingly from the surface, swaying slightly in the air-conditioned breeze like swings in a haunted playground. The dark, rusty stains that had dribbled down the sides of the altar and dried there painted a morbid picture.

The purpose of the structure was all too obvious to the hunter, and he gulped audibly.

Swinging his somewhat restricted gaze to the left, careful not to jar his aching head, he caught sight of the large ebony table standing proudly in one corner, gnarled feet set apart like a growling lion. Though his vision was still shaky from what years of experience were telling him was a solid concussion, he could clearly see the dark objects that cluttered the surface of the shrine. He'd seen them before. Many times.

Small, twiggy animal bones were scattered randomly amongst herbs and ugly-looking dried plants as they surrounded glowing black candles like moths circling a lamp. A mortar and pestle stood to one side, as if as an afterthought, but Dean knew it would be the star of the show. A crudely carved wooden chalice sitting majestically on a raised plinth would likely be the receptacle of whatever toxic concoction was brewed in the mixing bowl.

But what made the young hunter raise his eyebrows in morbid curiosity, was the strange bronze icon posed proudly at the front of the table. The stem had been sculpted into the form of a fluidly muscular man with the somewhat incongruous head of a snarling beast that Dean didn't recognise. The mysterious figure held his hands arrogantly aloft, cradling a deep red stone that seemed to glow wickedly in the light. A shallow bowl containing something acrid smelling seemed to have been inlaid into the base, for Dean could see a small funnel of yellowish smoke gently wafting from it into the too-bright air.

It was black magic. Of the darkest kind.

And all at once his ailing consciousness caught up with his eyes. _Oh, hell no!_

He would have laughed if dread hadn't suddenly pierced an icicle through his heart. They were going to sacrifice him.

"Been there, done that" He muttered sotto voce, inescapably reminded of those terrifying hours helplessly tied up in that Burkittsville orchard, ears straining fearfully to hear the sound of a bloodthirsty scarecrow crashing through the undergrowth as he struggled to free himself.

Whoever had abducted him was presumably intending to offer him up to the demon Angranos. He felt a thrill of alarm dance across his skin like an army of tiny spiders as Jake's mutilated body flashed before his eyes once more.

_Crap!_

That was putting it mildly. And how friggin' humiliating! He'd been so sure that Sammy was in danger, so determined to protect the kid that he'd walked right into the trap they had set for him like a wet behind the ears rookie. His brother was going to kill him. If Sammy was even looking for him.

As far as his little brother knew, he was in a bar somewhere drinking himself into a stupor. He probably wouldn't even be missed until morning...if at all. Especially after he'd walked out of their silly argument like a pathetic, spineless pansy.

He felt a burbling stream of dismay trickle through him as it occurred to him that even if Sam _was_ searching for him, the chances of his being found were almost non-existent. Neither of them had any idea as to who was behind this, and if the grouchy pathologist was to be believed, then Dean had around twenty-four hours before he was tortured to death. Of course, he hadn't a clue what time it was. It might have been even less than that.

There was no way Sam would find him in time.

Dean closed his eyes as a wave of sadness washed over him. His little brother would never forgive himself, and the elder Winchester felt the pain of that realisation keenly. Sam, who was still grieving for the loss of the love of his life. Sam, whose life had already been cruelly ripped apart so many times. Dean had tried so hard to sew it back together with his typically inept stitching, but who was going to do that once he was gone?

A muffled moan from somewhere across the room snagged the hunter's attention, yanking him forcefully from the sadistic clutches of his ruminations. Shuffling himself awkwardly around to the right, wincing as he did so – the manoeuvre stilted and laborious – his eyes fell upon a struggling form bound similarly to a pillar several feet away, within striking distance of a closed doorway Dean hadn't noticed before.

Even with features distorted in pain, and a mouth gagged with a thick strip of duct tape, Dean recognised the writhing young man with a sickening lurch. It was Michael Edelman.

The missing student began jerking and twitching a macabre dance, bulging eyes rolling in terror as Dean watched with helpless concern. He appeared completely unaware of his audience, whimpering and cowering from some horror that only he could see. His brow was glistening with diamonds of sweat, and his wrists were rubbed raw and bloody from the plastic ties.

Dean ground his teeth in fury. How long had he been suffering like this?

"Michael!" He called out hoarsely - swallowing back a groan as his still tender throat protested vociferously - hoping to guide him back to reality as he had done with Sam so many nights over the past few months. "Michael! Wake up!". But the boy continued to thrash in oblivious distress, locked in a nightmare Dean didn't have a hope of releasing him from.

This was so not good. Dean knew he was looking at his own future, and his trepidation was so palpable he almost expected to see the air shimmer with it's intensity as it radiated from his strained frame. There wouldn't be much hope of freeing himself from his bonds; cable ties were notoriously hard to break, and the young hunter could already feel the tingling numbness in his limbs from where the tight restraints had begun to constrain his circulation.

It wasn't long before he felt a warm wetness slipping between his chafing wrists. If they were bleeding already, they were going to be ruined in a few hours. He jiggled his arms, vainly hoping that the blood might give him enough lubrication to slip his arms free, but the sticky substance seemed instead to glue his wrists together further. He dropped his head backwards in frustration and was treated to a yowl of pain and rainbow of fireworks exploding in front of his eyes as his oozing wound connected solidly with the pillar.

He let out a string of curses that would have made even his father blush, and then immediately silenced himself as the sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. Tensing, he braced himself for what he was about to see.

The door – a heavy oak monstrosity with a stiff iron handle – ground open with a judder that made the hairs on the back of Dean's neck rise in uneasiness. Two men swaggered arrogantly into the room, their twin smiles predatory, like ravenous piranhas preparing to swarm their prey. Instant recognition smacked Dean across the face, and he could have kicked himself – bound feet or not – for missing what was now so glaringly obvious.

Joseph Fitchpatrick's eerie cerulean eyes were brimming with satisfied amusement as he met Dean's defiant scowl, the two gazes sliding immiscibly over each other like oil and water. The older man pushed a stray lock of hair from his courtly face with a suave flourish and strode forward to stand regally before his newest captive, loose linen trousers flapping against sandalled feet that squeaked on the bland, grey linoleum flooring as he moved. So the new age garb hadn't merely been a costume. Good to know.

The young hunter winced internally as he remembered the humiliating interview with the man that he and Sam had joked in blissful ignorance about just a few days ago. The sadistic bastard had left them so convinced that he'd had the hots for Dean that they hadn't recognised in him the malice that their keen eyes normally would have. They hadn't noticed the almost psychopathic charm, the near obsessive-compulsive neatness. They hadn't realised how perfectly placed the guy had been to access and manipulate his victims.

And Dean had cooked himself up like a Christmas turkey, hand delivering himself to the sonofabitch on a burnished silver platter with all the trimmings.

Wasn't hindsight a bitch?

Fitch was staring down at him with expectant patience, but Dean's attention was suddenly snagged by the unsettlingly familiar figure who had loped into the room behind the phony academic advisor. It was the mop of raven hair he noticed first, the thick strands falling forward to curtain intense cobalt eyes as his stocky frame rested casually against the wall, the picture of complacency.

It was the boy from the fire. The irritating, designer-clad pretty boy who had tried to prevent Dean from rushing in to rescue his brother. The one who had conveniently disappeared when the two brothers had been brought out of the room. Dean had forgotten all about him.

Son_. _Of_. _A_. Bitch._

Dean could barely contain a grimace as all the pieces fell together with nauseating clarity. It had all been a set up. They'd played him like a prize Stradivarius, leading him a merry dance, all the while plucking his strings and masterminding his actions like notes on a musical stave. All that time they'd had him running around worrying about Sam, when _he'd_ been the real catch all along.

But why? Dammit, what the hell was so virtuous about _him_? He was practically the poster child for promiscuity, violence and over-indulgence.

The elder Winchester felt the prick as anger was injected into his veins, felt his muscles tremble as it began to spread like wildfire. He held himself rigid, straining with the effort of not giving his captors the satisfaction of seeing how much their presence had rattled him. But dammit, the bastards had used _Sam_ to get to him. They'd nearly _killed_ him!

He ground his teeth together and was proud of himself when he managed to remain silent, his acid tongue firmly held prisoner behind bars of teeth.

"Glad to see you're enjoying our hospitality Mr Townshend. Or I _should_ say, Mr Winchester" Dean wanted nothing more than to wipe the smug smirk off the older man's pompous face, but he settled for twitching his mouth in contempt. Inside, his mind was reeling.

How the friggin' hell did the guy know who he was?

"Not feeling chatty, Dean?" Fitch languidly began to circle Dean's pillar, his leather sandals creaking excruciatingly with each step, and the younger man struggled to keep his gaze from following him like an orbiting moon. "I'm disappointed. I was led to believe you can be quite entertaining..."

"Bite me!" Dean spat before he could stop himself, his worry piqued at the fact that Fitch seemed to know so much about him.

"Ah, there we go!" Fitch's mouth widened, unveiling a gleaming trophy rack of teeth so dazzling that Dean almost expected to see a small ping of light winking at the corner of his mouth like in some of the cheesy TV adverts he'd seen as a child. "But I was hoping for that discussion on Italian versus French art. Never mind"

Dean glowered mutinously back at him, riled by the other man's evident pleasure in taunting him. The only other time he could remember feeling this level of skin-crawling disgust was when he'd been staring into the deranged eyes of the poker-wielding Pa Bender.

_Ghosts I get, people are just crazy._

Wasn't that the truth?

"You didn't really think I'd fall for that did you? Although I can't fault your taste in music...I clocked you two as hunters the second I laid eyes on you. You're not the first I've come across over the years" He paused, waiting for his captive to comment, and sighed theatrically when there was none forthcoming.

"I suppose you're wondering what this is all about Dean? Well, you're about to become part of a centuries long tradition. Only a select few have ever been chosen for this Dean. You're truly special. You see, back in the day, I was part of an illustrious group of men – we called ourselves Spiritus Eternus. There aren't many of us left now, most were not strong enough..." Fitch paused again for dramatic effect, his demeanour almost wistful.

Dean snorted derisively. "I guess they're enjoyin' a little hellfire hospitality now, huh?"

Fitch ignored him. "We spent most of our lives searching fruitlessly for the path to eternal life. I won't bore you with the many rituals we tried, with the counsel we sought, with the sacred objects we procured – although I have to say, the Holy Grail did _not_ live up to the hype. Suffice it to say, nothing worked" He continued his circular sojourn around his captive, like a conceited shark toying lazily with it's meal.

"Then one day, on our travels across what would nowadays be called the Middle East, we stumbled across an ancient tome, hidden deep in a cave where we had sought shelter. I suppose you might call it a random occurrence, but I'd call it _fate_. It was everything we had been searching for. It told of a great beneficent being, a-a _devil_, some would say" He laughed contemptuously at the poor ignorants who could possibly come to _that_ conclusion. "who could bestow the gift of eternal life on his worshippers"

Dean rolled his eyes at Fitch's exaggerated production, and then wished he hadn't as the motion sent pain stabbing through his skull. He didn't think he could keep up the silence gig any longer. He'd had enough experience over the years of over-enthusiastic maniacs who could wax lyrical on their own twisted fetishes for hours if left unchecked.

"Can we skip the sales pitch? Don't you think the whole evil-villain-speech thing is gettin' a little old? But then, I guess you've been doin' the bore-your-prisoner-to-death routine for a while...old habits, huh?" The sarcastic words dripped from his tongue in rivulets of sour honey, but it didn't seem to bother Fitch in the slightest. In fact, he laughed out loud, the booming sound echoing through the room and intensifying the nauseating tumult already clanging away in Dean's head.

"Now I see where your reputation comes from Dean" The older man paused in front of him once more, and bent down to patronisingly pat his prisoner's head like a dog owner giving praise for a trick well-performed. Dean endured it stoically, determined not to give the murdering bastard a reaction, though inside he was squirming wildly.

"Anyway" He started circling afresh, arms waving in grandiose gestures. "The book told of a ritual, a sacrifice to be made in order to satisfy this demon, Angranos" His eyes seemed to glow in the stark lighting of the room with a zealousness that bordered on ecstasy. "If we gave to Angranos, the blood of seven people on the cusp of every seven year cycle, he would give us immortality in return. We would never age, never wither, never shrivel and die"

"Dude, ever heard of anti-wrinkle cream? Or plastic surgery? Which, by the way, you could _definitely_ use. Or how about growin' old gracefully" Dean sneered, set on finding the chink in Fitch's armour.

"And miss out on all this?" The older man cried, gesturing to the ceremonial paraphernalia with a grand sweep of his arm. "Where would the fun be in that?"

"So that poor bastard over there..." Dean inclined his head towards Edelman's still twitching form, baring his teeth in a silent growl. "That's _fun_ to you?"

Fitch merely smiled, the expression wiped clean of any remaining crumbs of humanity.

"What the hell did you do to him, you sick sonofabitch?" Dean couldn't hold back any longer, tugging at his restraints in frustration. Nothing got past his meticulously sculptured façade of cocky impassiveness like the suffering of others.

"Mr Edelman over there is enjoying the effects of one of my home-made recipes" Fitch flicked a bored glance at his incoherent captive, as if he was an old toy callously discarded at the purchase of a new plaything. "It is a requirement of the ritual. It _prepares_ the blood for consumption – the Digitalis helps to guide Angranos to my location. And the rest, I guess, adds a little flavour. Belladonna, I hear, is particularly good for seasoning"

"Well, aren't you just a regular Martha Stewart" Dean bit out scornfully, knowing he was betraying his hatred, and that the bastard was enjoying it.

"Hmm, nice...I like that. We'll stick with your cooking analogy then, Dean. For the ritual to work, the blood needs to be _marinated_ – so to speak - for twenty-four hours while the oven pre-heats. Then you'll go on the grill over there-" He waved a hand towards the altar as a smile filled with eerie pleasure crept across his face like falling darkness. "And I'll keep sticking a knife in you until you're done"

Dean felt sick as he swallowed back the bile that had risen in his throat. The man's cavalier description of the heinous act of torture he'd been putting his victims through was a chilling indicator of exactly how many pieces of his soul he had destroyed over the centuries. He gulped as Fitch began lapping the pillar again, once more allowing him an uninterrupted view of the altar that awaited him. Oh this was so, so, _so_ not good.

"Why me?" He blurted, suddenly desperate to know. An almost hysterical hope that the maniac would realise that Dean wasn't virtuous at all and let him go was frantically plugging away at his crumbling defences.

"What do you mean?" Dean felt a whisper of air kiss his wrists as the linen covered legs flapped past.

"I thought your...victims...were supposed to represent the Seven Virtues" Dean answered through gritted teeth.

"Oh my, haven't we been busy? You certainly know more than I gave you credit for" Fitch sauntered over to the altar and leaned nonchalantly back against it, crossing his bare ankles. "Although I'd have thought even you'd have worked out the reason for your presence by now. Courage, Dean. It was rolling off you in waves. I sensed it before I even saw you"

Dean's eyes widened slightly as he remembered Fitch's unnerving attentiveness at their first meeting, the way the demented hippy had stared hungrily at him, and he shuddered involuntarily. Even back then he'd been marked.

"Such a magnificent specimen. I knew I had to have you. But the ritual requires the chosen ones to be tested, their virtue must be pure, you see. Such an inconvenience. So I had Nathaniel over there set up a little test for you" Fitch gestured towards the other man, who had remained silent and uninterested throughout the whole proceeding. "I knew if I put your little brother in peril, you'd charge in to save him, regardless of the danger to yourself. Classic hero complex"

It was the condescending smirk that drove him over the edge. He thrashed against his bindings, and couldn't help the furious snarl that escaped. The inhuman bastard had hurt his brother and left him to be burned to death all so that Dean's _courage_ could be tested? There weren't words for how incensed he was.

"Now, now! Calm yourself Dean" Fitch's admonishing tone was completely at odds with his amused appearance, like an indulgent parent making a token attempt at discipline, and the hunter knew that there was nothing he could do that would knock this man from his perch. He had to control himself, had to keep a leash on his anger. But dammit, he'd hurt _Sam_!

"I know it seems cumbersome and unnecessary to do the tests Dean. Believe me, my life would have been a lot easier if I could just take people whenever I wanted. But those are the rules. The blood must be pure. Angranos has...particular tastes" The older man tossed his head in an affected show of vexation. As if Dean was supposed to be sympathetic.

"Well, that's just great. I'm gettin' sacrificed to a demon with a refined palette. Lucky me" Dean retorted with vitriol, willing himself to remain still. "I find it hard to believe I'm the only brave person you've come across. Why'd you pick me? What about my brother?" He found himself feeling almost affronted on Sam's behalf. As if Fitch was trying to suggest that his little brother wasn't as brave as Dean knew him to be.

For the first time the adviser looked unsettled, shifting uncomfortably against the stone altar and clenching his fists slightly. "There is something dark in your brother, Dean. His blood is not pure"

"What the hell are you talkin' about?" Dean demanded sharply, feeling a strange foreboding sensation. Did the bastard know about his brother's psychic visions? Was that what he had meant? His mind spun dizzyingly at the possibilities.

"Just what I said, Dean. When I saw him I sensed something dark in him. He has courage, to be sure, but Angranos would not accept his tainted blood"

Dean frowned at the response. There was nothing mocking in what the other man had said, no intent to taunt, and the elder Winchester sensed that he wasn't lying. He couldn't dwell on that now, though. Especially now he had confirmation that the murdering sonofabitch wasn't interested in his brother. Sam would be safe.

He turned his attention to Fitch's accomplice, the bastard who had actually attacked Sam – and who had most likely been his own kidnapper. "So who is this guy then, one of your douchebag buddies?"

Nathaniel pushed himself away from the wall and took a couple of steps forward, baggy jeans perched precariously on his hips as he moved, revealing more than Dean wanted to see of his boxers. His outfit made him look like the kind of gangster wannabe that Dean would normally have scoffed at had he come across him in any other situation. Then Nathaniel leered, his eyes turning an inky black.

The young hunter recoiled involuntarily at the sight. _What the hell?_

Definitely the owner of the superhuman arms of steel that had grabbed him earlier, and most likely the source of Fitch's information about him. Demons apparently liked to gossip like old women.

"Nathaniel is a little bit like my Familiar" Fitch announced proudly, like a father presenting his precocious child. "He is bound to me, as a practiser of witchcraft, helping me to carry out my rituals"

Dean smirked mirthlessly at the demon. "So, what's it like bein' Fitch's bitch?" He snarked mockingly.

Nathanial languidly turned his onyx gaze on the hunter, raised his hand with almost apathetic slowness, and leisurely clenched the fist, his expression blissful.

There was a split second before Dean felt it. The white hot agony seemed to explode out of nowhere, filling his veins with searing lava, clawing at his insides as if something sharp and jagged was trapped in his body and straining to cut it's way free. He had time to hark back to a certain movie he'd surreptitiously seen as a child before his whole body became a giant spasm of torment, and he couldn't contain the howl of pain that escaped his grimacing mouth.

Then all at once it was gone again, leaving him gasping through his tortured throat and sagging limply against his bonds.

"It has its perks" Nathaniel professed, the euphoric expression lingering on his wholesome features as he slouched backwards, handing the reins back to Fitch, who clapped him on the back in congratulation.

Dean fought to bring his breathing under control, the memory of the pain still haunting his body like a vengeful phantom - except there would be no rock salt blast for this one. "There's one thing I don't get" He ground out, feeling his heartbeat gradually slowing under his careful discipline. "Why'd you take me now? You already have Edelman, and you don't usually take people this close together"

"Well I _was_ going to bring you in last night, Dean – instead of Mr Edelman over there - but you're pretty damn hard to get hold of. Nathaniel's been following you, trying to procure you for a while"

Dean's gaze dropped guiltily as he considered this. They'd have waited for Edelman. He shouldn't even _be_ there. They'd only grabbed _him_ because they couldn't get Dean. Yet another life he was responsible for.

"So as soon as the opportunity arose, I asked Nathaniel to grab you. I didn't know when we'd next get the chance, especially with your brother hanging around like a bad smell. But it must have been our lucky day, you wandering into that alleyway alone. Too good to miss. Besides, there's no real pattern to this, Dean. Angranos isn't fussy about when he eats as long as he gets his fill before the end of the year"

Deeply unnerved, Dean managed a half-hearted repartee. "Well I guess we should be thankful for small mercies..."

Wasn't this just the icing on the friggin' cake? He'd been followed all day and hadn't even had an inkling. He was really getting sloppy. Sammy would have a field day with that one. Not to mention his father, if he ever found out.

"Quite" Fitch's lips quirked into what was now becoming a habitual smirk. Dean tried to comfort himself by thinking about all the creative methods he could use to obliterate the self-satisfied grin, starting with his fist.

He glanced across at his cellmate, noticing with a small sense of relief that he was now slumped pitifully against his pillar in an almost catatonic intertia, eyes glazed and unseeing. His condition looked far from flourishing, but at least he no longer seemed to be cowering in a fear-induced haze. Small mercies and all that.

"Weeeelllll" Fitch announced dramatically, pushing himself away from the altar with flamboyant vigour. "I think that's enough chit-chat for now, Dean. Though I must say, it _was_ stimulating. Maybe we don't need to have that artistic conversation after all. It's time for your first taste of my secret recipe"

The elder Winchester swallowed nervously as he assessed his predicament. Restrained as he was, he couldn't see any way of avoiding ingesting the concoction, but the pathologist's creepy declaration kept ringing in his ears.

_These are poisonous elements, but the concentration in the bloodstream wouldn't be enough to cause death, but more than enough to cause...discomfort._

One look at Michael Edelman was all he needed to understand what Gilroy had meant. And it looked like he was about to experience it for himself, first hand.

He watched in futile fear as Fitch moved towards the ebony table, beaded bracelets jangling with discordant cheeriness as he began scattering assorted herbs and worryingly anonymous liquids into the mortar. Then came a Latin incantation Dean couldn't translate as the older man began to reverently grind the ingredients together with the pestle, his voice caressing the words as if they represented the most intimate love. After a few moments, he poured the gluttonous liquid into the carved chalice and raised it from the table, cradled protectively in the palms of his hands, and turned triumphantly towards Dean as if presenting his newborn son.

The younger man tried to shuffle backwards, knowing it was pointless, but god...he really didn't want to drink that stuff. He felt the plastic cutting into his wrists once more, but the stinging burn of abraded skin would be nothing compared to what that crap would do to him.

He turned his head away from Fitch's approaching form, only to find himself staring into the jet-black void of Nathaniel's eyes. A split second later, and the demon's fingers were grasping his chin in a vice-like grip, digging painfully into his jaw until he had no choice but to open his mouth. His head was forced back around and held rigid as the chalice was held to his lips. Protesting incoherently, he struggled vainly against the hold, but he could do nothing to stop the viscous substance from violating his mouth.

Feeling the liquid pooling at his throat, he gagged, trying immediately to spit it out. But before the thought had even become solidified in his mind, a length of duct tape was wrapped unceremoniously across his mouth, and he found himself once more locking gaze with Nathaniel's mocking features. Dean managed a few clogged breaths through his nose before finally admitting defeat, the only choice being to swallow the foul mixture or choke to a guttering death.

He closed his eyes in resignation as he allowed the liquid to scorch a path down his throat, trying to ignore the "Good boy!" Fitch tossed his way before he and Nathaniel made their way from the chamber.

Dean could feel the potion gurgling in his stomach, burning like acid. It was the only warning he had before his body suddenly began trembling uncontrollably. With the tape across his mouth, all he was able to do was moan pitifully as the shakes became almost frenzied. The elder Winchester barely had time to wonder if he was having some sort of seizure before conscious thought was replaced by interminable torment, and pain was all he knew.

Then the hallucinations began.

* * *

><p>Sam Winchester tried not to look at the scuffed phone and bloodstained Colt laid to rest on the dining room table like casualties of war as he paced back and forth. His tangled emotions reared within him like a living entity, bucking against the tight knot holding them bound. Every glance at the flaking rustiness on the butt of his brother's gun sent an ice-cube of fear trickling down his spine to melt into the boiling anger in the pit of his stomach.<p>

His mind felt disjointed, as if someone had dismantled all his neuronal connections and rewired them incorrectly. Wondering fleetingly if this was how Dean had felt when he had been kidnapped by the Benders, he found himself battling the urge to bawl uncontrollably. He hadn't a clue what to do, and the tormenting image of Jake's disfigured corpse kept determinedly hounding his thoughts, only now the body had Dean's face.

_God, Dean._

For, a short time ago, he'd come to the heart-stopping conclusion that his brother was going to become Angranos' next victim. After retrieving his torch from the Impala, he'd painstakingly combed every inch of the grimy alleyway, looking for any shred of evidence that might help him find his big brother - feeling his stomach flip sickeningly when the small oval of light had danced across a light dusting of yellowy powder on the far wall that Sam recognised only too easily.

Sulphur.

He couldn't necessarily have been certain that this was related to the current case - their recent dalliance with Meg had shown him that they would always have to be wary of demons trying to get to them - but the apparent involvement of Angranos in the killings was more than enough reason for the younger Winchester to assume that Dean had been kidnapped as a sacrificial victim. Then there was the fact that there was just something about the way his brother had disappeared that was just too coincidental to be random. The supernatural didn't _do_ coincidences. And Sam nearly being murdered the night before his brother had been abducted was not something he was willing to ignore.

Why would they snatch Dean and not kill him on the spot unless they were planning to do something with him?

Sam's mind refused to compute the notion, but stray thoughts and images slithered through to his consciousness nonetheless. He didn't want to pick through the harrowing knowledge of what Dean might be enduring while he paced uselessly in the Warren's extravagant dining room. Didn't want to keep hearing an audio replay of the pathologist's chilling words. Didn't want to keep seeing the shredded skin on Jake's wrists and ankles.

That hideous symbol, carved grotesquely into tender flesh.

He swiped a furious hand across his forehead, violently scrubbing away strands of greasy hair from where they were tickling his eyelids. The headache he'd suffered earlier had returned for a show-stopping encore, an encumbrance he could really have done without as he tried to decide what to do. The pounding refused to leave the limelight, despite the painkiller-controlled heavies that tried to manhandle it from the stage.

The anger that had bolstered him down in that alleyway had propelled him as far as the apartment before worry and hopelessness had captured and imprisoned it in a cell of cluelessness. What good was anger if he had nothing and no one to direct it towards?

Zach and Rebecca were standing awkwardly on the other side of the dining table, looking shell-shocked and vacant as they warily eyed his frenetic movements. Rebecca's arms hugged her chest, but from the rigid way she held her small frame, it seemed their support did little to comfort her. Zach was looking at him as if he'd never seen him before, as if he was some madman who'd battered his way into their safe world and announced that this was a stick up.

Sam didn't blame his old friend. He knew he was a mess, could only imagine what his wide-eyed dishevelment must look like.

And then there was the fact that he'd just told them his brother had been kidnapped by a murdering devil worshipper who intended to sacrifice him in the most horrific of ways to a blood-drinking hell demon.

Zach cleared his throat in a way that sounded painful even to Sam, whose own oesophagus had been mutilated beyond recognition after the fire, and attempted to placate his friend. "Okay, Sam. Look, we can't panic about this. If you just calm-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!" Sam all but shouted as he cut across the older man, halting his pacing and whirling to confront his friend. "Not when some maniac has my brother, not when he's going to pump him full of poison, torture him and then bleed him to death!"

Zach paled at the hunter's words, and put a protective arm around his sister as she let out a soft sob and raised a quivering hand to her mouth. "Okay, okay. Uh...well, we have twenty-four hours right? We'll find him, Sam"

"That's twenty-four hours too _long_ for that psychopath to have his hands on him" Sam ground out, using a shaking arm to brace himself against the back of a chair – much as Dean had done during their earlier fight. Great. Another reminder of what a crap little brother he was. He'd pushed his injured sibling to storm out and get himself abducted, and now he couldn't even figure out where to start looking for him.

If a demon had taken him...it could have done so by possessing any meat suit it wanted. Sam thought that finding a needle in a haystack would probably have been an easier task than smoking out a disguised demon. And it wasn't like he could just start spraying everyone he met with holy water, or muttering 'Christo' under his breath repeatedly. Both approaches would probably serve no further purpose than to get him a new home in a padded cell.

Sam's weariness clung to him like a ten-tonne wetsuit, dragging him underwater to the depths of unfathomable despair. His body was betraying him with its pleading desire for a dark room and a warm bed, but his mind refused to give in. He had to pull himself together. Dean was counting on him, and every second he wasted was one in which his brother might exist in unimaginable agony. How was he supposed to bear that?

He took a deep breath and realised with a sad smile that though Dean was god only knew where, he could still feel his big brother's presence beside him, balancing out his bereft soul. The older man had taught him well, he just needed to channel the part of Dean that was always inside him; the part that had guided him through three and a half years of college, the voice at the back of his mind that had kept a running commentary over all that time, and which had always made him smile at the most inappropriate moments – 'Dean's' observations often being uncannily accurate.

What would Dean do? Or maybe a better question would have been, what had Dean _done_?

For a moment he was back in that filthy slum of a cage in the Benders' shed, gazing with awestruck relief at the miraculous sight of his brother materialising from the shadows. The man who had seemingly moved heaven and earth to find him when Sam had thought he was lost forever. His hero big brother. He remembered the almost childlike feeling that everything was going to be okay, that Dean would sort everything out. As he always had.

Dean had been frantic. There had been no doubt about that. And the sickening injuries he'd sustained at the Benders' handling had left Sam with a gruesome picture of the lengths his brother would go to protect him. But dammit, Dean had sucked it up. His brother was the ultimate alchemist, transforming terror into action. Sam had looked up to him for years, before dismissing Dean as his role model and prancing off to college. Now that idolisation had reclaimed it's coveted position.

To find Dean, he needed to _be_ Dean.

"Okay, I know, I know" Zach assured quickly, palms spread in supplication as he tried to avert another eruption of Mount Sam. "We'll find him, man. We _will_. I'll call the guys, get them to come and help. We'll figure it out"

Sam swallowed and looked up at his friend from his stooped position against the chair. He continued to control his breathing, drawing reluctantly on what he'd learned from the meditation classes Jess had militantly dragged him along to on Tuesday nights. He'd always put up the expected protest, but had secretly concluded that it wasn't _all _mumbo jumbo.

As his lungs expanded and released rhythmically, he felt the tingling electricity in his muscles give way to manageable calmness. "Right. Yeah, good idea" He muttered, his brain already whirring at the research possibilities, internet search algorithms being plucked and discarded in his mind like ripened fruit.

If he couldn't pursue the demon, he'd have to focus on finding the link between the victims. The cult member who was pulling the strings.

Finally allowing himself to sit down, he pulled the laptop across the polished surface of the table with a screech, ignoring the identical winces on his friends' faces at the motion. Flipping open the screen he powered up the internet and waited for the search page to load. As if sensing that the heady heights of panic-filled catastrophe had given way to controlled action, Rebecca dropped her tense stance and plopped into a seat beside the young hunter as her brother left the room to call in reinforcements.

Sam spared his old friend a contrite glance, realising that the situation had to be bringing back traumatic memories for her. He couldn't forget the fact that she had endured hours of being tied-up and tortured by the shape-shifter wearing his brother's face. She'd never mentioned it, but Sam knew from experience that the nightmares lingered long after the event. "Hey listen...Becca...thanks for this. For...for letting me stay. For helping me find Dean. This can't be easy for you"

She raised her eyebrows fractionally as his words registered, before shaking her head slightly. "No Sam...you don't need to thank us. You, your brother, we're indebted to you" When Sam would have objected, she raised a hand to stall him. "We _are_. I mean Zach...he might have faced the _death penalty_ if Dean hadn't taken the fall for what happened. I'd do _anything_ to help him. I'd do anything to help _you_" She finished with a bitter-sweet smile.

Sam felt humbled beyond words. For the first time perhaps, Dean's mantra resonated with a poignancy he had never imbued it with before. He'd often overlooked the importance of 'saving people' and 'hunting things', but hearing how much Rebecca had valued it struck him somewhere deep. "Thanks" he murmured sincerely, returning his friend's smile before switching his focus to the task at hand – already feeling guilty for his lapse in concentration.

Dean would suffer for his lapses in concentration.

His fingers skittered across the keyboard as he began going over the research he and Dean had done earlier, looking for something they might have missed in their injured exhaustion. Something was nagging at him, poking at his consciousness from behind a shapeless veil of unformed thought. Something his brain had registered but didn't feel quite ready to share with him yet. Something hidden in plain sight, but still completely invisible.

Thinking of his recent epiphany about his relationship with Dean, he mused how true that statement was.

Rebecca was studying him in fascination as he worked. The two of them had shared classes in the past, and had worked together for assignments on more than one occasion, but this was different somehow. Yet another sign of the mask he'd worn over the years. "Sam, there's something I don't understand. You said you were sure Dean had been taken by the same guy who murdered Jake, and I understand your reasons. It's just...why _Dean_?"

Sam blanched slightly, remembering that the non-verbal communication he shared so comfortably with his brother didn't translate well in Dean's absence. Things he would never have had to explain to Dean would have to be outlined to others who didn't speak Winchester. Sam's realisation that his brother was intended to represent the virtue of Courage had been almost instantaneous, he hadn't thought to enlighten anyone else, thinking it went without saying.

"Courage is one of the Seven Virtues, Becca. That's why they took him" He murmured desolately in response, thinking about the innumerable times his brother had shown his bravery throughout his life. It defied description. Sam had always been terrified that Dean's ability to push aside his fear and charge head-first into danger would get him killed one day. It was almost ironic that his courage would get him into trouble without him even doing anything.

His solemn answer was enough to silence Rebecca. She nodded in response and sank back in her chair, grimacing as the carved wood dug into her shoulders.

It wasn't long before the others arrived bearing laptops and coffee, rallied by Zach's SOS call. The questioning shock was clear on their faces, and though Sam was glad of their presence, he found himself resenting the pitying looks and soothing tones. He didn't need coddling. He needed an army.

The group assembled themselves around the dining table like a ramshackle board of directors, the chorus of loading laptop screens providing an oddly cheerful soundtrack to the tense proceedings.

"Sam, I don't get it. Why do you need us? Why the hell don't you just call the police?" Sam had been looking for someone or something to direct the full force of his anger towards, and if Elena hadn't sounded so unbearably naïve, he might have done just that.

He was about to explain when Rebecca beat him to it.

"Because of St. Louis, honey. The police can't know about this, Elena. Are you okay with that?" She examined each one of her friends before continuing. "Are you _all_ okay with that?"

The cascade of nods was like a Mexican wave around the table, and – bolstered by their support – Sam rose and began to address the group.

"Okay, so before Dean went...missing...we found that all the victims had been students in the School of Humanities and Social Sciences. We need to start there. Look for any connections within the school. Professors, tutors, study groups. Anything" Sam directed, feeling like a field commander deploying troops in a war zone.

Feeling like his father.

It was a disconcerting experience.

"Wait a minute" Luis gave a time-out gesture with his hands from across the table. "How did this happen anyway? All Zach said was that your brother got snatched by the same bastard that murdered Jake-"

Sam's glare drew him stuttering to a halt, the heat within his gaze neatly declaring that topic officially off limits. Remembering the other man's earlier antipathy towards his brother, he debated ordering him to leave, debated making Luis the target of his wrath. But on balance, he knew he needed the extra help.

Reigning in his temper with considerable effort, he looked towards Jenna, concerned for her wellbeing given her emotional connection to the case. He scoffed internally at the thought – like anyone could get any _more_ emotionally involved than him at that moment. She straightened her shoulders defiantly at his glance however, determined to show him that she could handle the situation.

"Jenna...are you sure-?" Sam began, needing certainty. They couldn't afford mistakes. It was amazing how he had started looking at his friends in terms of their strengths and weaknesses, of their potential contribution to the team. Dean's life was too important to put in incompetent hands.

"Sam, I'm okay" To her credit, she really did sound collected. "I can do this. I _have_ to do this"

The young hunter thought he could still detect the quaver in her tone, but a close examination of her countenance yielded satisfactory results. Her resolve to catch Jake's killer would definitely work to his advantage.

The uneasy silence amongst the group soon gave way to the busy absorption of an assignment to be completed. They were all well versed in studying together, and before long a production line of tasks began to be generated and completed. Foreman Sam wandered the war room, examining their findings, discarding the immaterial and storing the interesting.

It was slow going. And Sam felt every passing second.

God, he just wanted to find him right the hell _now_!

"Wait a minute" Riley murmured, eyes weaving madly from side to side as they perused the screen.

"What?" Sam was at his side in an instant, gaze searching hungrily for the tiniest morsel of information.

Riley's face was almost ethereal in the glow from the open laptop as he inclined his head towards the screen. "Some of the victims hadn't picked their majors yet, right? So they'd have been sharing some subjects. I was just looking at Annabeth's and Gerry's class schedules. It looks like Annabeth was taking a Political Science class, and Gerry took Political Philosophy in his freshman year. Both classes were taught by Professor Kenneth Watson. Michael was a Psychology major, but Watson took a module on existentialism"

"And of course Jake was a Political Science major. So he definitely would have been taught by him" Sam nodded pensively. It was one of a number of links they had found – there was a tutor who'd had all victims in his group at one stage or another, and Professor Anderson had turned up as a possible connection too - but Sam wasn't getting excited by any of them.

He was missing something. He just friggin' knew it.

"Okay" Sam straightened and moved back to his own computer. "Zach, can you check out how long Watson's been here? I'm going to check out Kirk" He smirked despite himself at his slip, and caught his friend returning the gesture.

Oh god. He couldn't lose his brother. He just _couldn't_.

"I'm on it Sam" Zach's x-ray eyes burned through Sam's involuntary smile, and his brow crinkled in compassion for the young hunter. "We'll find him"

Sam swallowed before clenching his jaw and nodding stiffly.

_You bet your ass we will._

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! I've never been to college in the US, so please forgive any inaccuracies!<em>

_Any comments welcome! :)_


	12. Square One

Hi everyone!

Thanks for the reviews and favourites/alerts - they really mean a lot to me!

Back with another update - this will probably be the last before I head off on my travels, but at least it's nice and long! I hope to update while I'm away, but don't know how regular this will be, so hopefully the past week will have made up for that!

Enjoy! :)

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><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 12 – Square One**

Dean Winchester didn't get flu. The odd sniffle perhaps. Sore throat? Sometimes. But flu? Nope. Sammy, on the other hand, seemed to get blind-sided by it with exasperating regularity. The older man could remember many a night spent labouring over his brother's fevers, trying desperately to cool heat that could have fried an egg on the kid's forehead. He'd gotten better at it as the years went by, learning the tricks of parenthood long before he'd become an adult.

Sam always moaned and whined his way through each bout like he was on the verge of death, and sent his brother on seemingly never ending runs to whatever local store was nearest to their motel for supplies of chicken soup and lemonade. Always lemonade.

He'd always winced in sympathy as his little brother shivered through the night, eyes open but nobody home. He'd sometimes teased Sammy when he grimaced against the blinding headaches and near delirium of the fever – if only to cover up how worried he really was. But Dean had never really understood the agony of the flu. He'd never had anything to measure it against.

Not until now.

Dean felt the deep ache in his muscles before he was even aware of having regained consciousness. He'd never realised he had so many of the damn things, and each one had apparently banded together to form a protest rally against any slight movement. Which was especially inconvenient since he happened to be slumped in the most awkward of positions, listing to the left against strained arms, his wrenched right shoulder pulled taut so that it felt almost dislocated.

The stabbing in his head was forceful enough to make his closed eyes twitch at every jab, and his throat burned dry and raw like scorched earth in a war zone. His body shivered sporadically, chattering his teeth behind his taped lips. Every time he thought he was free of it, it would start again, propagating itself uncontrollably downwards through his depleted frame.

He'd never tease Sammy about the flu again.

After a long preparatory moment of rapid, panting breaths, Dean finally pushed himself upwards into a seated position, barely avoiding a groan as his newly awakened right arm decided to punish and incapacitate him with pins and needles. Once upright he scooted backwards slightly, hoping to take the pressure off his throbbing – and most likely swollen – wrists. Finally able to rest his head against the pillar behind him, he waited for the room to stop spinning.

He didn't even have his eyes open and the room was twirling madly like one of those spinning tops that he'd once amused a three year old Sam with during one of their more lengthy motel stays - their father had been leaving Dean to care for Sam more and more at that time, and the elder Winchester had been at a loss as to how to keep an irritatingly inquisitive Sam occupied until he'd hit the jackpot and found the brightly coloured object under one of the beds.

The only other time he could remember having felt as sozzled as he did now was the night Sammy had deserted him for Stanford. Even now he could recollect little of what had happened after the spectacular blow-out between his father and brother, let alone how much he'd drunk. He'd woken in the morning feeling like death, _praying_ for it when he realised the extent of his father's wrath.

Dean decided he was going to personally dismember that Gilroy bastard. _Discomfort_ didn't even come close...

And god...the things he'd seen. The things his poisoned mind had made him endure. He was pretty sure his intestines weren't meant to be outside of his body, but he'd watched as unknown hands dragged the slick viscera from his core and began tearing them to pieces. And then there had been the parasites that had burrowed beneath his skin and had caused the surface of his epidermis to ripple like disturbed water. He suppressed a shiver at the memory, not wanting to revisit the sensation of having living organisms crawling around inside his body.

Dean felt utterly disjointed and disconnected from his body, as if his actual self was floating somewhere near the ceiling, looking down upon his slumped form. His mind was a gushing river, his thoughts leaping salmon that kept slithering through the reaching hands of his consciousness as they journeyed upstream.

"Are you going to be joining us, Dean?" The young hunter couldn't avoid a flinch when his captor's supercilious tone bored into his skull with the intensity of a whirring power drill. He still hadn't chanced a peek from under reluctant eyelids, somewhat afraid that the slightest chink of light would burn his eyes out like a medieval hot poker. So he kept them squeezed shut, hoping irrationally that Fitch would believe he was still out of it.

A smooth hand patted his cheek insistently.

No such friggin' luck.

"Come on, Dean! Wouldn't want you to miss the show. You do have a front row seat after all" The vile amusement permeating the other man's voice made him want to vomit, but with the tape sealing his mouth shut, there was no way _that_ was happening.

A loud _crack!_ sounded as the insistent patting suddenly became a violent slap, stinging his cheek and snapping his head to the side, forcing a surprised grunt from behind his gagged mouth. Realising the bastard wasn't going to leave him alone until he gave in, Dean finally pried his eyes open.

And immediately wished he hadn't.

His stomach sank straight to the floor as he caught sight of the struggling figure now strapped to the altar in front of him. Dean growled as he noted the straps pinning Edelman's arms, legs and bare abdomen to the stone surface; yanked painfully at his own bonds as he registered the thick length of leather stretching across the boy's mouth, holding his head in place.

_Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!_

Dean had never felt so helpless as he watched the boy's pitiful squirming, not even when he'd been tied up and at the mercy of the Benders as they'd told him they were going to go out to their barn and shoot his caged brother. Even then he'd hoped. He'd had faith in Sam. When he didn't have faith in himself.

But now this poor innocent kid, only a couple of years younger than Sam...and oh god, he didn't want to see this.

Fitch, who had been crouched to Dean's left, watching the play of expressions across his captive's face with evident relish, rose to his feet and stepped in front of the altar, sweeping his hair back haughtily. He appeared to be dressed in some sort of ceremonial garb, a shapeless black robe lined with golden embroidery falling in swathes from his slender frame, lending him the unfortunate image of an overgrown bat. Dean found himself wondering whether the uniform was a necessary feature of performing the ritual, or whether it was merely that Fitch's apparent proclivity for theatrics had led him to dress up for the occasion.

"I can see you're enjoying the prelude to our little show. Well it won't be long until the feature presentation, and Mike here, has the starring role. I thought you might find this enlightening. You know, give you some pointers for your own performance"

Dean of course, could say nothing. And oh, how it irked him. He forced every curse, every violent fantasy, every poisonous cell in his body into one blistering glare. The elder Winchester had been told many a time – mostly from random women he'd picked up here and there – that he should just shut his mouth and let his eyes do the talking. And when Fitch threw his head back and guffawed heartily at the ceiling, Dean thought that maybe they were right.

Jeez, this was humiliating. And the bastard friggin' knew it. Dean's sarcasm was his defence, the armour he used to fortify his battered psyche. Without it he was exposed, vulnerable. Powerless.

But that didn't mean he was going to admit defeat. Straightening his shoulders, he held his head level, staring unflinchingly at the older man. To his surprise, Fitch didn't comment, but merely cleared his throat and sashayed over to the altar. Dean allowed himself that small victory before despair clawed it's way back to the forefront of his mind. He could be as triumphant as he wanted, but Edelman was still going to be tortured to death. And he was still going to be forced to witness it.

"Okay, let's get this show on the road" Fitch announced, unsheathing a glinting blade with a dramatic flourish and pivoting to brandish it exaggeratedly at Edelman's quivering form. Dean closed his eyes in grief as he heard the boy's desperate moans, the student's panic growing exponentially with each cry as Fitch approached.

Dean eyed the curved blade with the fascination of one who has spent a lifetime handling and tending to weapons, and with the dread of one who knew the destruction they were capable of. As Fitch flapped towards the altar, the young hunter finally caught a detailed glimpse of the knife. The serrated curve arced gracefully from an elaborately carved handle, inlaid with mother of pearl that gleamed with opalescent pulchritude in the artificial light.

It truly would have been a thing of beauty had it not been so horrific, so emblematic of torment and agony; had it not carried the weight of every innocent soul that had been murdered over the centuries. Flecks of dried blood clung to the jagged edge like rust, and as the blade descended to rest on the panting chest of the petrified boy, Dean realised with a sickening jolt that Fitch wasn't even going to clean it. Why he chose to focus on that specific horror he didn't know. It seemed relatively minor in the grand scheme of what he was about to see, but who knew how many decades of blood were still on that blade?

Dean could only watch in impotent revulsion as Fitch straightened, eyes staring blankly forward, instead of down at his struggling offering, his voice beginning to intone in Latin with the same ugly adoration he'd shown when mixing Dean's potion. The knife rested lightly upon the skin covering Edelman's sternum, buffeting slightly as the boy continued to hyperventilate. His protesting groans were so loud now that they almost drowned out Fitch's soft incantation, but the expressionless madman seemed not to notice as he continued his trance-like recitation.

Suddenly there was a hushed pause. Even Edelman had grown silent, as if held enchanted by the same spell that held Fitch rigid, that prevented Dean from closing his eyes, from shutting himself off from this terrible scene.

Then the knife sliced downwards.

Dean tried not to hear the agonised scream, barely contained by the thick leather strap. Tried not to see how the chest arched up in panic against the restraints. Tried not to notice the way the blood bubbled over the curve of the body and trickled down the sides of the altar to drip into a congealed puddle on the floor.

He tried. But he couldn't.

He'd wanted to save this boy. He'd wanted to save them all. How laughable was that? Dean Winchester actually doing his job properly? But he'd failed. Again. And this time it was going to cost him his own life.

Dean sat through the entire ritual, unable to keep the horror at bay as the kid's frantic screaming eventually dulled to weak, tormented whimpers as his strength faded; the knife relentlessly slicing its monstrous pattern on his torso. But his hands, they hadn't stopped flailing frenziedly throughout. And it was the twitching fingers more than anything else that told Dean how much pain Edelman was enduring.

The blood by now had painted crimson tiger stripes down the kid's side, the viscous pool on the floor expanding towards Dean's legs like an approaching storm cloud. A few centimetres more and it would engulf his bare feet. He tried to shift backwards, but his back was already glued to the pillar. There was nowhere for him to go. He felt the rapidly cooling fluid lap at his toes, and cringed as they began to stain a rusty red.

Minutes later and Edelman's fingers had finally stopped jerking, his entire body limp against the leather bonds. The only sign that he was still alive being the sound of his juddering breaths and the allegro movement of his chest. The kid's capitulation tore at Dean more than the screaming ever had.

The young hunter ached for Michael Edelman. He felt the pain of the hopes and dreams that would never be realised, for the family that would lose something that they would never be able to replace, for the girl who would lose her lover. The poor kid was only a couple of years younger than Sam. If Dean ever lost his brother...well, the thought alone was unbearable.

He should have stopped this. He was a useless pile of crap, a total failure, an embarrassment to his family. He should have died in Edelman's place.

Suddenly exhausted, he sagged back against the pillar. The fresh bleeding on his wrists, coupled with the throbbing in his ankles told him he had been struggling more violently than he'd realised. And, as if it had been waiting for this very epiphany, pain decided to make its grand entrance replete with loudspeakers and spectacular pyrotechnics. Abruptly he could feel the deep furrows the plastic ties had dug into the delicate skin of his wrists, and winced as the raw patches rubbed together.

But whatever pain he had started to feel was immediately eclipsed by the sharp recognition that the ritual was coming to an end. Fitch's hypnotic voice had faded into silence, and he stood rigid next to the altar, arms at his side as he slowly transferred the knife into his other hand and once more stared unseeingly forward.

Dean jumped as Fitch's free hand shot out without warning and landed on Edelman's chest, fingers splaying out over the gouged symbol like spider legs. The boy's body arched up grotesquely at the contact, held there by some supernatural force. The leather straps creaked and groaned as the unseen element continued to tug upwards at Edelman's chest.

Out of nowhere, a whipping wind burst through the room with almost hurricane intensity, the chill that came with it cutting Dean to the bone. He tried to shield himself from the force of the gale – which seemed to have considerately left the black magic shrine untouched – but he felt it scraping painfully across his skin regardless, scratching at his face like sandpaper.

Fitch gurgled suddenly, and Dean whirled around at the noise, squinting against the violence of the wind as tears formed in his eyes. Through his blurred vision he could see that the older man had thrown his head back, hair whipping wildly, mouth gaping in a silent yell. Transfixed, he watched as a swirling thunder cloud of demonic black smoke funnelled into the room with a booming roar and was eagerly swallowed by Fitch's guzzling mouth.

This couldn't be good.

The room seemed to shake with the demon's presence, the air charged and deadly, as Angranos' head snapped back into position with an audible crack that left Dean vainly hoping that Fitch's spinal cord had been severed. But it appeared that luck was apparently choosing to side against him once more as Angranos smoothly swivelled his head to gaze down almost lovingly at his prostrate prey.

Dean held himself motionless, hoping to escape the demon's attention. But dammit, luck seemed to really have a bone to pick with him today.

Angranos took a deep, noisy breath in through his nose and swung his face towards Dean as if on a hinge. Then he smiled, Fitch's lips drawing into a display of such evil that the phoney academic adviser could only have hoped to emulate in his wildest dreams. Dean stared helplessly back, his eyes held prisoner in the steel trap of the demon's gaze.

Which meant he was unable to look away when the demon's eyes suddenly glowed with burning fire, pupils misting over with churning orange flames. And though he glared back without a hint of fear, without an iota of submission, he felt he'd failed somehow when Angranos winked cheerfully back at him.

With the echo of the smile still curling at his lips, Angranos slammed his eyes closed and reared back, the air seeming to shimmer around him as the wind blasted through the room once more. Edelman's body remained glued inhumanly to the demon's hand, jerking as the blood was vacuumed from his core with a sickening slurp. The boy suddenly let out a yowl worse than any that had gone before, one that sliced straight into Dean's heart and carved itself a permanent residence. He knew it was something he would never forget.

It took less than ten seconds for Angranos to eat his fill. Less than ten seconds for Michael Edelman to finally die. Less than ten seconds for his limp body to flop back down onto the stone altar like a fish dying out of water.

Dean closed his eyes at the boy's passing. It was the only mark of respect he had to offer. He'd failed him in ever other way.

When he opened them again he was unnerved to find that the demon was staring at him once more, the orange eyes transforming Fitch's features so that he was almost unrecognisable. Dean had seen possessed humans before, but none had looked so distinctly _not_-human, as if even the essence of the demon could corrupt the very genetics of the body in which it resided.

Then Angranos did something unexpected. He belched. A guttering, rumbling sound that forced searing acid into Dean's throat.

"My compliments to the chef" He grinned, idly lifting his bloodstained hand and leisurely licking each finger. "Mmm" He groaned with pleasure in a way that somehow managed to make Dean feel even more uncomfortable. Did demons have sex anyway?

"Charitable blood" Angranos murmured, sweeping a glistening tongue around his lips to catch every last drop like a cat lapping from a bowl of cream. "Tastes so good, especially with that hint of altruism. But courageous blood..." He paused, moving towards the bound hunter and leaning in close.

Dean forced himself not to react as he felt the hot breath on his cheek, had to work hard not to vomit at the coppery stench that reached his nostrils. He tried not to flinch as the demon whispered like a lover into his ear. "It's my favourite. So rich and textured. And the belladonna really brings out that tang of repressed fear"

The young hunter didn't realise he'd been holding his breath until his lungs started screaming for attention, banging frantically against the bars of his ribcage, but he held on tight until he felt the demon pull back.

"I'll see you tomorrow, Dean" Angranos promised, before throwing his head back and purging himself from Fitch's body, the adviser's limbs convulsing wildly as his mouth regurgitated the demonic smoke. Dean watched dazedly as the roiling cloud billowed upwards and seeped somewhat anti-climatically through a small air vent in the ceiling – no doubt placed there for that very purpose.

As the last wisp disappeared, the room seemed to deflate like an abused bouncy castle, the air dragging downwards with a tug that wrenched vertiginously at the young hunter's tortured muscles. Unable to stop himself from groaning at the sensation, Dean let his head fall forward, headache still dancing a merry jig inside his skull.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Fitch climb awkwardly to his feet from where he had crumpled to the floor after his brief possession. The older man's hair was tousled and tangled from the roughness of the wind, making him look as if he had been rolling around in a hay barn, and the folds of black material draped over his body were bunched together in...unfortunate places.

Dean would have laughed if he hadn't just watched this man torture someone to death, and _enjoy_ it. No, there wasn't an ounce of humour to be found. Still, Fitch did look ridiculous. He'd take his pleasure where he could get it, and he had the feeling it was going to be slim pickings over the next twenty four hours.

Fitch turned shakily towards his remaining captive and huffed out a breath, which Dean guessed was supposed to garner his sympathy for what had clearly been an exhausting experience. Well, if that was the case he was going to be sorely disappointed.

The demented adviser hastily scrubbed his still bloodstained hands in the layers of his dark robes as his eyes traversed the limp corpse adorning his stone altar. He grimaced, shooting Dean a companionable glance. "Ugh, the clean up. Isn't that always the worst part of the party?"

Dean could barely summon the energy to glare with any real intensity, the apathy from having his voice taken away from him overriding his usual defiance. Fitch didn't look like he expected much of a response anyway, the haggard lines that had materialised on his face after the possession giving a sudden glimpse of his true age. For a moment he looked like something Dean would have salted and burned – he looked almost emaciated, parchment-like skin stretched tenuously over jagged cheekbones.

But a second later Dean was sure he had imagined it as Fitch shook his head slightly and turned to face the young hunter once more – youthful skin glowing and rosy even just from the minor exertion of standing up. "Well, I must say, I'm rather tired. All that sacrificing really takes it out of you" He huffed out an amused breath. "But I think, before I turn in for the night...that you could do with another dose of my special brew"

Dean blanched. Couldn't help himself; the prickling burn of phantom remembered pain coursing hotly through his limbs at the mere mention of that vile concoction. He felt the sinking dread engulf him once more, but knew there was not one thing he could do to stop it. This helplessness malarkey was getting _really_ old _really_ fast.

The elder Winchester watched with idle panic as Fitch bustled about with his mixing utensils and vials of ingredients, looking for all the world like the black magic Martha Stewart Dean had figured him for earlier. He wanted to whimper at the thought of enduring another round of agony, of being an unwilling participant in his poisoned mind's twisted theatricality, but Dean Winchester did _not_ whimper. Even if he really, really wanted to.

All too quickly Fitch was kneeling before him, the carved bowl cradled preciously in palms still marred by the rusty stain of Michael Edelman's blood. Dean turned his head involuntarily as the scent of the mixture hit his nostrils, and found himself once more looking into the onyx eyes of Nathaniel, who had apparently popped into being at some point the young hunter was unaware of.

Dean stiffened in token protest as Nathaniel pinched the end of the tape covering his mouth and briskly tore it off with an accompanying cacophony of stinging pain. The elder Winchester barely had time to make any kind of sound in response, or enjoy the feeling of air rushing past his lips before his jaw was gripped tightly and the edge of the bowl was tipped against his open mouth.

Like a well oiled machine, the process was over very quickly, and before he knew it, Dean was curling in on himself – a new strip of tape across his mouth and the familiar fire in his belly as he felt the pressure of the poison building within him. He felt his breath begin to quicken as his heart struggled and fluttered like a caged bird. And as his vision began to grow hazy, he was vaguely aware of the movement of the other two men around him.

"Nathaniel" Fitch was saying, although his words had become slow and distorted, as if he was making an anonymous ransom demand. "Dispose of this will you?"

And as he heard the creak of the leather straps being unbuckled, and the rough shift of the corpse on the stone altar, Dean Winchester finally lost his shaky grip on reality.

* * *

><p><em>Dispose of this will you?<em>

The master's dismissive command still rung in Nathaniel's ears as he began releasing Edelman's floppy corpse from the stained altar, his ebony gaze uninterestedly scanning Angranos' leftovers – the amateurish carving on the torso, the delicious terror forever captured on the boy's face like a freeze frame image.

He almost tutted at Fitch's poor knife-work. It was embarrassing, really, to be the slave of this flamboyant buffoon. Sure, as he'd said to the Winchester boy, there were elements that made the servitude more bearable, but nevertheless the magic that kept him at Fitch's beck and call had made him the laughing stock of the lower ranking demons he'd used to hang with. _Fitch's bitch_. Dean Winchester had latched onto their favoured nickname with infuriating predictability, which clearly demonstrated both the banality of the nickname and the hunter's level of imagination.

He could remember many an orgy of torture and bloodsport he'd enjoyed in the past before Fitch had caught and bound him, several of his fellows getting together regularly for a bit of human-baiting. Sometimes they'd hunted them, uproariously chasing after the terrified vermin as they'd fled, before catching and ripping them limb from limb like a pack of giggling hyenas. Other times they'd just peeled the skin from their bones, sometimes donning and parading around in it afterwards. Hell Fashion Week.

That had been back in the Middle Ages - before Fitch had summoned and trapped him at the end of the thirteenth century - and he missed the camaraderie of group possession, of mass terror. Those had been the days. But now, having to follow the master, being tossed a bone now and again to keep him sweet...it rankled.

Removing the last of the restraints, Nathaniel glanced over the the master's latest offering, convulsing dazedly against the pillar he was tied to. The hunter's eyes were open and rolling wildly, sweat running in streams down his ashen face. Dean Winchester was lost to incoherence now, trapped in whatever freak show his mind was drumming up for him. It really was a pleasure to watch. But the master was going to deny him that luxury too.

Nathaniel sighed, conflicted. Watching Winchester suffer was acutely tempting, and he knew that there were certain higher ranking demons who would have been falling over themselves to be in his place – Azazel especially seemed to have an unhealthy interest in that particular family, but that wasn't for Nathaniel to judge – but the master had never sacrificed a hunter before. And Dean Winchester was someone who had the knowledge that could potentially free him from Fitch's control, if Nathaniel were to let him.

But even if he'd wanted to make a deal with Winchester, the master's hold prevented him from any such action with a Chosen One.

Fitch didn't even allow him the courtesy of being able to change bodies - keeping him locked in the completely unsatisfactory form of this wimpy-looking pretty boy. But then, Fitch did appear to have a preference for keeping certain types of men around him...Nathaniel could only imagine that this had been the reason that Angranos' devotee had been so determined that Dean Winchester be brought in. The demon knew that Fitch had been keeping his eye on another candidate for a considerable period of time - a man who would have no idea of his lucky escape. But whatever the reason, Nathaniel could at least enjoy the fact that a hunter was about to get his comeuppance - even if he didn't get to watch.

He sighed again, giving the hunter's delirious form an almost wistful glance before gathering up Edelman's body and taking off to do his master's bidding.

* * *

><p>"This is it. It <em>has<em> to be!" Sam Winchester looked triumphantly up from his laptop to face a wall of raised eyebrows in front of him. He could feel the thrum of a lead vibrating through his body like tightly strung wire, his brain firing boisterously at the confirmation of his suspicions.

"What is it?" Kate asked in an uninspired tone, wiping a hand tiredly across her eyes, unintentionally smearing her black mascara as she voiced the level of enthusiasm the others were clearly all feeling. That the immaculately put together woman had been so careless was an indication of just how frazzled she was. And come to think of it, they were all looking somewhat worse for wear: rumpled clothes, greying pallors and eyes so bloodshot they could have passed for zombies. They'd been at this for a while.

"Okay, get this. We know that Kir-_Anderson_ is the only way we can link all the other victims to Dean. And _he _was the expert Dean went to see about the symbol. The guy told him that he'd studied that sect for his doctorate, which is more than a little convenient. But apart from that, he's only been a member of staff here for the past five years" Sam glanced at each of his friends in turn, the victorious _et voila!_ dancing on the tip of his tongue going unvoiced.

The expressions staring back at him were unconvinced at best, downright disbelieving at worst.

"Are you sure, man?" Riley asked hesitantly, his tone level and measured, as if negotiating a hostage situation with bank robber Sam. "Has he been anywhere else where killings have taken place?"

Sam's face fell slightly. Not that he had been able to prove – but he was determined not to let this lead fail. It was the only one he had, and admitting defeat would put him back at square one – and that was _not_ an option. Dean's life depended on him landing on ladders, not snakes. "Well, we couldn't actually _find_ any mention of other killings in the last seven years. The only one matching the description turned up twenty-one years ago in Atlanta, and Anderson was at grad school at Browns. But then, he could have just travelled around – covered his tracks. It makes sense"

"Uh, I guess" Luis began reluctantly, using the same calm tone as Riley. "But dude, he always seemed like a good guy. He helped a friend of mine get extra credit so that she wouldn't lose her scholarship-"

"Yeah, well I didn't _ask_ you!" Sam snapped, ignoring the shock on his friends' faces as his growing irritation at the other man finally boiled over. "He's the only one who knew Dean. The others never came into contact with him-"

"Yeah, that you _know_ of!" Zach cut in, not wasting time with the careful tone the others had hidden behind. "Dean was running around all afternoon while you were in the hospital. You don't know _who_ he might have spoken to, or even where he _was_ half the time!"

Sam shot him a betrayed look. Even Zach, of all people, was turning against him. Doubting him. He sighed, dropping his forehead into the palm of his right hand. "I need to find him guys. And this is the best lead we have" He murmured, closing his eyes in pain as he thought of his missing brother, before his head lifted and his voice hardened once more. "So this is what we're gonna do..."

A quick hack into the campus directory handed him the professor's address. An apartment not far from the Stanford Campus. An apartment. Not exactly ideal for carrying out satanic rituals. After all, what would the neighbours say?

Undeterred, Sam decided he would need to check it out anyway. The Dean inside of him was shouting at him to get his ass into gear, to get down there and demand answers. Dean had always been very persuasive. Well, Sam could be very persuasive too. Especially when his brother was god only knew where, and in the hands of a murdering psychopath.

"Look, Sam, you can't just barge in there-" Zach was arguing in reaction to Sam's announcement that he planned on going straight down to the Stanford apartment and interrogating the professor, the disbelief at the younger man's intentions stark on his weary face.

"The hell I can't!" Sam shot back through clenched teeth, pushing himself up from his chair as his hackles rose. "That sonofabitch has my _brother_, and I'm going to _make him_ tell me where he is"

The raw, unyielding fury in his voice seemed to send shock-waves rippling through his friends, his meaning abundantly clear. The group stared at him as if he was a complete stranger; the quiet and reserved boy they had studied with, partied with, confided in, now overridden by this hardened, protective hunter. This dangerous man who was prepared to go to any lengths to get his brother back.

"Sam" Jenna's voice rose over the ringing consternation in the room. "Sam, look I get it. I want this guy, man, I'm so angry I could almost kill him for what he did to...I mean, he _deserves_ to pay. But Sam, we don't want to tip him off"

"Exactly" Zach agreed, levelling his tone as he eyed Sam warily. "What if he disappears? Besides, we don't know what he's capable of. He's using..._m-magic_" He paused with a frown, looking as if he couldn't believe what he was actually saying. "We could lose Dean if we're not careful"

Sam growled, livid that his friend would even suggest that he would risk his brother. But somewhere behind the righteous anger, the logic in what his friends were arguing was starting to sound reasonable. They needed to take their time, needed to plan their strategy. If they made one false move and Anderson disappeared, there would be no hope of finding Dean. But dammit, every second that passed was twisting the knife lodged in Sam's gut, widening the wound that seemed to have been bleeding constantly since Dean had walked out and vanished. How was he supposed to wait when every fibre of his being was chanting _finddeanfinddeanfinddean_ like a battle cry over and over. This was unbearable.

"Look man, I know this is hard" Zach didn't back down in the face of his friend's ire. Sam knew his friends still didn't really believe Anderson was responsible, that they were humouring him. But he understood what they were trying to say. "If it was Becca..." he glanced at his sister. "I know I'd be the same"

Sam jerked his head in acknowledgement of his friend's thickly cloaked apology and sank back into his chair, sighing heavily as the outrage seeped from his body. For the umpteenth time he wished Dean was with him. He felt so lopsided, like he'd lost a leg instead of his brother.

No, like he'd lost the other half of himself.

"All right, we'll...we'll tread carefully" Sam finally agreed, taking a brief moment to marvel at how much he'd sounded like Dean – gung-ho and ready to rush in all guns blazing. He was usually the one cautioning his brother to take a moment to think before barging in and 'winging it', like Dean so often did. It had used to drive Sam mad, especially since 'winging it' usually meant the older man putting himself directly in the line of fire.

And now, here he was, ready to break into someone's apartment and start interrogating them by whatever means necessary. It was so unlike everything he had wanted to be, everything he had fought for by forging his own path in Stanford. But now, none of it mattered. He realised that there was literally _nothing_ he wouldn't do for his big brother.

"Good" Rebecca murmured softly in relief, stifling a yawn and rubbing a hand absently against her forearm. Sam gave himself a mental slap. It didn't take a genius to work out what she'd been thinking. And with Sam banging on about 'making' the guy tell him where Dean was...well, Sam knew what _he'd_ been imagining, and it hadn't been a casual conversation over tea and biscuits.

"Right, so we don't talk to him yet" Sam continued, pushing away his guilty thoughts. They were an indulgence Dean couldn't afford. "But I want to get a look at his place. There might be something there, a clue to the ritual, or where he has another property" He glanced at his watch, the numbers curtly informing him that it was far too soon for the apartment to be empty. "It's a little early, so we'll need to wait until after he's left for class"

"Wait, what?" Elena piped up, a dainty frown creasing her brow, as if the penny that had dropped for the others minutes ago had only just finished it's descent in her mind. "You're talking about _breaking in_? You can't be serious!"

Sam just stared blankly back in response, not willing to spare energy on an answer. God, was that how _he'd_ used to be? He could remember many times when he'd whined and bleated to Dean about the legally dubious methods they'd often used to get their job done. He must have been a total pain in the ass. It was funny how one's priorities changed when one's brother's life hung in the balance. Once more, Sam mused at how little he cared that he was clearly frightening his friends.

"I get that this might be a little...risky for you guys. That's why I'm going in myself. You've all been amazing, and I appreciate all your help. But you don't need to be involved with this" Okay, so he might not have been worried about his self-image any more, but that didn't mean he wanted his friends to get into trouble because they'd made the mistake of trying to help him. He didn't want the Winchester curse infecting their lives too.

"Sam, if you think I'm going to let you do this alone, then you're crazy" Zach shook his head, a level of determination that could have rivalled Dean at his most stubborn setting his features.

"Zach, no!" Rebecca exclaimed, patches of red inflaming her cheeks as her voice grew more heated. "For god's sake, you were nearly on death row! You are _not_ getting in trouble with the police again"

Sam was inclined to agree, but before he could get the words out, Zach cut across him. "Becca, I was proved innocent, by _Dean_! It's the only way I can really repay him for what he did for me!"

"Zach, that's not-" Sam began, but again was headed off at the pass by the older man.

"I don't want to hear it Sam!" Zach fired back with a vehemence none of the room's occupants were used to, his usual joviality long forgotten. "I'm coming with you, and that's final"

He sounded so much like Dean that Sam hadn't the heart to challenge him, not that that would have made any difference to the outcome. There were times with his brother where Sam could have argued against him until he was blue in the face, or could have upped his doe-eyed plea to the highest possible setting, but if Dean was set on a course of action, then nothing short of nuclear warfare would have deterred him. He was an expert on stubborn older brothers, and it looked like Zach was turning out to be no different.

Sam sighed. "Okay" He relented, and found himself smirking slightly at the Zach's look of surprised triumph. The older man appeared as if he hadn't expected to win the argument, as if he hadn't quite thought through the consequences, like a politician winning office and then realising people were actually counting on him to implement his policies.

"I'm in too" Riley raised his chin defiantly, waiting for the inevitable fall out. It didn't disappoint.

"Riley, are you crazy?" Luis exploded, eyes practically popping out of their sockets.

"You're going to get yourself arrested!" Elena joined in, corkscrew curls bouncing madly in her frenzy.

"Riley, this is a bad idea" Kate warned with a terse shake of her preened head.

Sam waited patiently throughout it all, torn between being touched that Riley wanted to help, and agreeing with the others that he should stay out of it. He was a little affronted at finding out what they apparently all thought however, and under other circumstances might have argued with them, but the feelings of defensiveness their words had stirred would have to wait until Sam had time to dissect them. At that moment he just wanted to get on with finding his brother.

Still though, did he really want to be worrying about a bunch of rookies when he was breaking into Anderson's apartment?

"Riley, man, seriously..."

"No Sam, I want in. This is important. We can catch a killer here" Riley glanced at the dissenters. "It's the right thing to do"

Sam nodded reluctantly as Luis exploded once more. "I can't believe you're letting them do this Sam! Bad enough that _Dean_ has you so corrupted that you're breaking the law without a backward glance, but now you're dragging Zach and Riley down with you too!"

"You shut your mouth" Sam replied with deadly calm, eyes flashing with barely contained venom. He shot up from his chair, smiling grimly as Luis recoiled involuntarily. "You have _no idea_ what our lives are like. And if you talk about my brother like that again-" Sam bit off the end of what he had been going to say, knowing that they couldn't be taken back once out in the open. It was enough that the other man had gotten the meaning.

Luis' eyes were bulging once more, and along with the way his mouth was opening and closing with almost comical rhythm, he looked for all the world like an overgrown carp.

"I have some stuff to get ready" Sam spoke once more as he averted his eyes, unable to rid his tone of the anger still clinging there like belligerent cobwebs. "I'll see you out at the Impala in half an hour"

* * *

><p>"So...you guys do stake-outs often?" Zach stifled a face-splitting yawn as the early morning sunshine began it's steady climb from the horizon, bathing the sleepy street in gentle golden light.<p>

Sam barely spared him a glance, his gaze fastened to the front door of the apartment building they were parked opposite, waiting for the figure of a William Shatner look-a-like to friggin' hurry up and beam into existence. Where the hell was Scotty when you needed him?

"From time to time" He murmured flatly in disinterested response.

The stillness in the car bothered him intensely. His friends didn't know what to be doing with themselves, and had lapsed into a kind of nervous stupor. Whenever he did stuff like this with Dean, there was fidgeting, shuffling, munching, complaining. Always noisy, always unbelievably _irritating_. But he would have given anything for that now, for his brother to be beside him, moaning that he'd finished the last of the coffee, or trying to cajole a thoroughly disgruntled Sam into a game of I-Spy.

"It always this boring?" Riley piped up from where he was draped across the back seat, a lethargic hand slowly exploring the lightly growing stubble on his chin.

Sam snorted softly, a reluctant smile tugging at apathetic lips. "Pretty much"

His eyes traversed the apartment building, a pleasant sandstone structure buffered by deep green foliage, the shrubs nestling cosily between ground and wall, guarded by sentinel trees stationed strategically around the perimeter. Even at this early hour, almost all of the windows had curtains pulled aside, jaunty light bleeding out from inside. The normality of it struck Sam suddenly, and he became witness to the unwanted memory of many blissful mornings like this when he and Jess had shared lazy breakfasts before hurrying off to their respective classes.

Jess had loved to cook, especially rich, baked foods. Sam could cook well enough, but mostly dishes that could have been cobbled together in the harshest of conditions. Dean had made sure that Sam knew how to assemble the bare essentials. Survival food. Where culinary pleasure wasn't exactly a high priority. When they'd first moved in together, Sam had amassed such a collection of tinned foods that Jess had joked about him stocking up for a bomb shelter.

Eventually she had broken the habit in him, and had gleefully taken to spoiling him with French toast, or bacon and eggs, or pancakes for his breakfast. And then there were the cookies she usually...

Okay. _So_ not going there.

Quashing the burning hot poker of pain jabbing from within at the thought of that fateful day, he refocused his mind on where he wanted it to be, where he _needed_ it to be. But dammit, there were still reminders of Jess everywhere. He should never have come back here to Palo Alto. He should never have brought _Dean_ back here. There had been so much he'd thought he had to prove, and all he had succeeded in doing was putting his brother directly in the line of fire. How many times had he done that now?

"You okay?"

Sam turned from his apartment vigil to meet the eyes of the older man in the passenger seat. The soft entreaty was pregnant with everything that Sam wouldn't – _couldn't_ - acknowledge. He couldn't face remembering the conversation he'd had with Zach the previous night, didn't want to think about the fight he'd had with Dean. God, he was so scared that he'd lose his brother, and that Dean would die thinking that he hated him.

He wanted to say no. Because he was so far from okay he'd almost forgotten what 'okay' felt like. But the only person he'd have admitted that to would have been Dean. And though Zach was often like his big brother, he just _wasn't_.

"Yeah, I'm okay" He murmured in response, not caring that Zach looked as if he didn't believe him. "Just...wish he'd hurry up"

Zach didn't challenge him, to the young hunter's relief, and the Impala's interior descended once more into silence as the three men felt the strain of the wait.

Coffee had just done the rounds for the second time since they had started their stake-out when Riley suddenly stiffened. "Look, there! I'm sure that's him"

Sam's gaze snapped to the doorway from where he had been screwing the top back onto his flask of coffee, zeroing in on the bulky figure waddling perkily from the entrance to the building. Taking in the man's jostling girth beneath what was evidently gym attire, he frowned. The man looked like he ought to have been a fit, rugged specimen, but at the same time he was clearly carrying a few spare tyres. There was something old, yet youthful about him, and Sam couldn't decide whether he was an older man who had aged well, or a younger man whom time had not been kind to.

Nevertheless, Dean – damn him! - had been absolutely spot on. He was Captain Kirk. Hearing a slight snort next to him, he could tell Zach agreed, and they shared another smirk at the professor's expense.

Then Sam remembered why they were there, and what this man had done. What he was _going_ to do. To Dean.

"Screw this!" He muttered vehemently as the red mist descended, and he reached for the door handle.

Suddenly there was a restraining hand on his arm. "Sam, _no_" Zach cautioned firmly. "We've talked about this"

"I _don't_ care!" Sam snarled back, snatching his arm back and shoving the door open, slamming it behind him in a way that would have made his brother furious if he'd been there to witness it.

He'd barely made it two paces before he heard the Impala's remaining occupants scrambling to follow him. He'd barely made it two _more_, before hands grabbed his shoulders and spun him round. They were both staring at him incredulously, an expression he was becoming increasingly tired of. Both had a hand on him, gripping tightly to make sure he didn't wriggle free.

"Okay, Sam, just _wait_. We'll search his place, see what we find. We'll get him later. If he's at the gym and then in classes then he can't be...you know..." _Hurting Dean_. Riley looked afraid that the mere mention of his brother would set the young hunter off again.

"But he might already be..." _Dead_. Sam faltered and closed his eyes at the pain that thought invoked.

He felt Zach's hand squeeze his shoulder in solidarity, and knew that he had to gather up the pieces of his shattered soul, to pull himself together. Anderson had left, the apartment was clear to search. They had a job to do.

He nodded, though no one had asked a question. "Okay. Let's do this"

Brushing off his friends' hold he strode purposefully towards the entrance of the apartment building, not stopping to check that the other two men were following. The front door was all gleaming steel and polished glass, with an expensive looking intercom system protected by an incomprehensible key pad. Sam snorted derisively. For all the money people forked out on these things, they would never be able to guard against the one surefire way the Winchesters had found of getting round intercom security.

He pressed a button at random, apartment 3C, and waited while grating static filled the air.

"Yeah?" Came the voice of a harassed sounding woman straining to be heard over the clearly audible sound of a wailing child.

Bingo.

"Uh, hi there. Uh, my name's Eric Coleman. My grandmother stays in 5B, I've been trying to reach her and she's not answering her phone or the intercom. I don't have the code to get in. I was wondering if you could-"

"Sure" The woman barked absently as a querulous voice screeched in the background "I don't _want_ to goooooooo!"

Sam hid a smirk as the door in front of him clicked. "Thanks" he called, but the static had vanished. Pushing the door open, he turned back to his friends, who were gaping at him once more – expressions shifting between total disbelief and grudging respect. He gave a small shrug and held the door for them as they followed him inside.

"How the hell did you know she'd let you in? What if she knew whoever _really _stays in 5B?" Riley hissed as they marched towards the elevator.

Sam raised his eyebrows in amusement as they entered the elevator and pressed the button for the professor's floor. "Riley, can you tell me the names of all the people who live on your floor?"

The blond man paused, frowning as he considered the question. "Uh..."

"Exactly. Now tell me the names of all the people who live two floors up!"

"Okay, okay!" Riley nodded, raising his hands in defeat. "That _was_ kinda cool" He admitted with a rueful grin.

"Yeah, well, it only gets us so far" Zach was sounding disapproving – and Sam itched to remind him that _he_ had been the one who wanted to come, and again wondered if that was how _he'd_ sounded when lecturing Dean. Almost definitely. It was a wonder Dean hadn't decked him. "How are you planning on getting into the apartment?"

Sam smiled grimly in response, pulling out the lock pick set that Dean – beaming like a proud father - had merrily bought for him when they had started hunting together again. "I know a trick or two"

Zach groaned and shook his head. "Wish I'd never asked"

When the elevator reached their floor, they stepped out as one onto soft, ivory coloured carpet. _Yeah, cos that's totally practical!_ Sam could almost hear Dean inside his head once more, and he allowed his 'brother's' presence to comfort him as he moved down the corridor to the professor's door.

Glancing around for security cameras and thankfully finding none, he stationed Zach and Riley at opposite ends of the hallway to keep watch as he picked the lock. An unnecessary precaution really, as it rarely took him long to accomplish the task, but he felt that his friends would find it easier to be distanced from the 'breaking' part of the breaking and entering.

Whistling to the other two men to let them know that he'd gotten the door open, he cautiously pushed his way into the apartment. Just because they had seen the professor leave didn't mean that the place was secure. Feeling the gun that he'd placed in his waistband earlier digging reassuringly into his back, he stepped slowly over the threshold. A brief scan of each room confirmed that the apartment was empty.

Letting his guard drop minutely, he stood in the open-plan living area and surveyed the room, seeing Zach and Riley doing the same beside him. It was a curious place. All magnolia walls and austere modern furniture – though the latter was only sparsely dotted throughout the apartment. It was classic spartan, bachelor living; apart from the total clutter of clearly treasured objects adorning walls, shelves, cupboards and any available surface. The place was teeming with stone carved statues, woodwork, decorative weaponry, and artworks – all of which looked to have been collected from many different countries and cultures.

It was ridiculously innocuous.

Sam swallowed painfully, his hopes of finding any kind of lead about his brother's whereabouts dwindling as he took in the abundant display of one man's innocent passion and love for foreign cultures and objects. All he could see here was a man whose commitment to his work had taken over his life. There was nothing here, he was sure of that.

But they'd look anyway.

Doing a quick sweep of the apartment to check for EMF or sulphur, and finding no trace of either, the three men gathered in the living room once more. The remaining glimmer of hope in Sam's heart hadn't yet been destroyed however, there was always the chance that there would be a clue in amongst the professor's belongings.

"Okay...uh, I'll check out the study, you guys take a look around – see what you can find" Sam forced out past the growing lump constricting his throat, feeling a very real fear that he had totally wasted his time by coming here.

Professor Anderson's study looked to be the real hub of the apartment, with papers strewn carelessly across the surface of a worn oak desk, and bookshelves kept immaculately without a speck of dust. There was nothing of the polished modernity endemic throughout the rest of the apartment, as if the furniture within this room marked the only pieces Anderson had brought with him when he had moved in. A threadbare yet comfortable looking sofa lined the wall opposite to the deep mahogany bookcase, and a scratchy Persian rug looked ratty compared to the shiny wooden flooring.

This glimpse into the 'real' Anderson only served to deepen Sam's niggling feeling that he had been entirely wrong about this from the start.

Brushing the thought aside like an annoying fly he examined Anderson's collection of books, begrudgingly admitting to himself that he'd have enjoyed going through the tomes at his leisure at any other time. There were books on the origins of various pidgin languages, human brain development, symbols of ancient and modern civilisations, and semiotics. There were no little aged black spell books, no texts on how to commit human sacrifice, no signs of satanic interest.

Sam scrubbed a hand frustratedly through increasingly greasy hair and moved to examine the muddled desk. Leafing through a stack of not yet graded assignments, the young hunter unearthed a desk calendar. Curious, he picked it up for closer scrutiny, and then his heart sank straight to the Persian carpet underneath him.

The week that Gerry McCafferty and Jake Moretti had both been killed, Professor Douglas Anderson had been attending the conference for the International Society of Linguistics and Semiotics. In Philadelphia.

A quick phone call – the number gleaned from a hasty survey of Anderson's helpfully provided address book – confirmed that he had indeed been there. And that everyone had _really_ enjoyed his presentation on the influence of semiotics on uses of the media in developing societies.

Sam closed his eyes in defeat as he hung up the phone and slumped down onto Anderson's shabby sofa, the heady feeling of unbearable panic threatening to take over. _Dean, I'm sorry..._

He was back to square one.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! Let me know if you enjoyed... :)<em>


	13. Somewhere a Clock is Ticking

Hi everyone!

Back with another update! I'm posting this from my LA hotel, that's dedication huh?

Was in Vancouver last week and actually saw the Supernatural crew setting up for filming. Sadly, no sign of our boys...but it did inspire me to get this chapter uploaded!

I haven't had the time to check this chapter over to the extent that I normally would, so apologies for any mistakes!

Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 13 – Somewhere a Clock is Ticking**

It was en route to Riley's apartment that they heard the news bulletin.

"And we return to our top news story. Another body was discovered earlier this morning -"

Sam Winchester slammed on the Impala's breaks with a lurch, and careered the car wildly towards the nearby curb, brain disconnecting from limbs as his heart literally stopped dead in his chest. Just packed it in. Handed in its resignation and collected its belongings.

Through the haze of sheer, primal terror blanketing his thoughts, he was vaguely aware that the other occupants of the car were vociferously protesting the sudden movement, not to mention the Impala's own objecting screeches at Sam's rough handling. But those were all events that were happening externally to his own private hell, dismissed in the midst of the paralysing denial that had isolated him from reality.

_No, no, no, no, no..._

Once the Impala had growled to a shuddering halt the young hunter put a visibly shaking hand to his mouth, his face turning pallid as his mind continued to hysterically proclaim that none of this was real. Zach's reassuring hand was on his arm as the three men listened intently to the report.

_No, no, no, it can't be! But what if it _is_...?_

The female newsreader was continuing to sketch out the details of the discovery in the type of incongruously cheerful voice that Sam had found many media presenters to wear proudly like badges of their trade. He wondered fleetingly if they were taught it somewhere, or whether it developed gradually as a kind of defence mechanism against the horror they often had to report.

"...The body was recovered at approximately 5am in Sharon Heights Golf and Country Club by a member of the grounds staff, and has been identified as that of Michael Edelman, a twenty year old student at Stanford University. He was said to have been reported missing two nights ago by his girlfriend Gina Waters"

It took a few seconds before his brain reset itself from the sensory white noise of 'full-blown panic' mode and began actually processing what he'd just heard. Then, as it hit him, Sam closed his eyes as an almost euphoric jolt of relief surged through his body, restarting his stupefied heart like a defibrillator charge. For a moment he'd thought...even though he'd known about Edelman, even though he'd been expecting it...nevertheless, he'd thought.

He felt his body begin to tremble involuntarily as the adrenaline left his system, his breath still coming in sharp, disorientating heaves. He chanced a glance at his friends – both of whom were tinged green and looking slightly sick in a way Sam was sure had nothing to do with the manic way he had just handled the Impala. There was a brief moment where the collective fear was acknowledged and the reprieve celebrated, before attention returned to the news report.

"Police are refusing to comment on reports of satanic involvement in the murder, but a source close to the investigation has suggested that the killing was ritualistic in nature. There are also indications that the murders of three other students at the University are linked. Captain David Hamilton of Palo Alto PD has played down suggestions that a serial killer may have been behind the murders"

"So Edelman was definitely one of them" Zach murmured as the perky newsreader rounded off the story before moving on to a small report about the California legislature that became instantly forgettable in the wake of what they'd just heard. The older man's eyes were cast downwards – out of respect for the murdered man, or deeply in thought, Sam couldn't tell.

But his own thoughts were in a centrifuge, churning and whirling as he grappled with this new development. Dean had been right. He'd known Edelman was a victim. And god, they'd failed the poor kid. But the real kicker, the most troubling part about Edelman's body having been found, was that Sam was so damn _relieved_ that it had been the young student and not his big brother. More than that, he almost felt _glad_ that the younger man's corpse had turned up just when they needed some direction in their search for Dean. There would be new leads, something to work with. Something to help him save his brother.

And what kind of a person did that make him?

"This is really happening isn't it?" Riley whispered in terrified awe, looking dazedly from Sam to Zach. As if the first three murders hadn't been convincing enough – Jake's included. But Sam hadn't the heart to snap at him. He was too busy trying not to feel the potent jolt of anticipation at the thought of finally getting a proper lead on his brother's whereabouts.

"So what do we do now?" Zach was looking deferentially at Sam as if he was the fountain of all knowledge. Like he was the one with all the answers. Like he was the leader to be followed. Sam supposed he _was_, but dammit he didn't _want_ to be. He really wanted his brother back.

He had his control, and it tasted bitter in his mouth. He had his control, but at what cost?

Straightening his spine and pushing his shoulders back from where they were hunched over the steering wheel, he turned towards his friends with newly formed steel in his gaze. He had his control, and he was just going to have to make the best of it. Dean was depending on him.

"We're going to investigate"

* * *

><p>"So, you said Mike had been on his way back from a homeless shelter?" Sam couldn't remember ever having to have put so much effort into playing the compassionate role before. He'd never had to even think about it.<p>

Dean had, unfortunately, neglected to mention the name of the homeless shelter that Michael Edelman had visited on the night he'd disappeared, and Sam was convinced it was an untapped source of vital information to be mined. Hence his decision to start conducting interviews with those who had known the young student best.

He was sitting on a blue plaid couch in a typically cluttered student apartment across from Edelman's trembling roommate, a red haired, gawky looking boy somewhat inappropriately wearing a _Grateful Dead_ t-shirt – Sam hadn't the heart to mention it. There were shirts in varying states of decay lying draped over the backs of couches and dining chairs, empty beer bottles acted as mantelpiece decorations across the top of a fake plastic fireplace - Sam also wasn't mentioning the issue of underage drinking - and several dog-eared notebooks were scattered across a faded formica coffee table patterned with rings of coffee residue.

It reminded Sam of the first apartment he'd shared with two other guys before shacking up with Jess. He hadn't liked them when he'd moved in, and he'd liked them even less when he'd moved out. They hadn't kept in touch.

Edelman's roommate – whose name Sam hadn't really bothered to retain – had just stuttered and sniffled his way through an explanation of the last time he had seen his friend before he'd gone missing and been savagely murdered. And though normally Sam would have felt the expression of the boy's pain echoing sharply down the hallways of his mind as though it had been his _own_, he'd closed those doors the second he'd realised he was in a race against time to find and rescue his brother. Now the hunter found himself wanting to grab the younger man by the shoulders like the type of schoolyard bully he'd encountered endlessly throughout his childhood and shake until the titbits of information he wanted scattered from the wiry kid like loose change.

He'd had about as much as he could take. This really was getting old. Dean could come out from his hiding place any time now. _Olly, olly oxen free!_

"Yeah" The kid gulped audibly, nervously pushing a pair of spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. "Out in East Palo Alto. He'd been going there for years. Since he started as a freshman actually"

Sam sighed internally. He didn't want Edelman's life story, he just wanted to know where exactly the damn place was! But unfortunately, covering as a guidance counsellor meant certain rules had to be followed – like not beating the crap out of a grieving kid.

And it was scary just how much he'd sounded like Dean in that moment. He could clearly remember his brother's similar dismissiveness back in that comical Winnemucca diner when he'd tried to flesh out Jake Moretti's life and background. Sam had been so ready to scold his big brother for his apparent lack of empathy, and yet here _he_ was doing the same thing, albeit with more subtlety. It was with unwelcome clarity that he realised how unfair he'd been to Dean in so many ways since they'd reunited, how critical and holier than thou he must have sounded. It was like he'd set out to find fault, both with his brother and with their lifestyle. He felt that he was finally understanding - or maybe looking at the hunting lifestyle through a more mature and less childishly indignant lens - the nuances of thought, of feeling and of action that his brother had been wrestling with over the years.

He had a lot of making up to do. When he found Dean.

"Sounds like he was a really caring person" Sam softened his voice without conscious awareness, his routine finally settling into autopilot as he realised he might be in this for the long haul.

"He was, you know?" The kid took a hitched breath, eyes watery and blank as he blinked at the young hunter. "And he just believed in the work Maria was doing so much"

"Maria?" Sam coaxed gently, leaning forward involuntarily on the couch, feeling as if the vital piece of the puzzle was just within his outstretched grasp.

"Yeah, Maria Colbert. I used to think something was going on between them, you know? The amount of time he spent there, and the way he went on about her. But then I met her. Not exactly his type, if you get my drift?" There was a choked laugh, a veiled attempt at humour that spoke of so much agony that Sam found himself feeling the familiar stirrings of compassion once more despite his best efforts.

And if this had been any other time, he'd have stayed. Really he would. But the kid had just handed him the name he desperately needed.

He managed to extricate himself with more care than he might have wanted to take, but he still felt slightly dirty for having exploited the younger man's grief. A feeling that clung to his skin like nicotine even after he'd exited the building and made his way back to the Impala and his waiting friends. But there would be time enough to berate himself for his actions when he had the luxury of knowing his brother was safe, and _alive_. He could recriminate himself to his heart's content when he had Dean tied down somewhere where his big brother couldn't wander off and get himself into trouble.

Zach had the laptop open and booted up before Sam had even eased himself into the driver's seat, fingers poised expectantly over the keyboard. At the older man's questioning glance the younger Winchester nodded. "A shelter owned by someone called Maria Colbert"

"Wait...I know her" Riley piped up from where he was leaning through the gap between the two front seats. At the twin expressions of confusion he elaborated. "Well, I don't _know_ her, know her. But I've definitely heard of her. She won some kind of community spirit award last year I think. East Palo Alto, right?"

At Sam's frowning nod, he continued. "I know where it is. I can get us there"

* * *

><p>When Sam first laid eyes on Maria Colbert, the red haired kid's poor joke suddenly seemed to make more sense. Lank, mousey hair was scraped carelessly back into an unkempt looking pony-tail, from which stray wisps escaped like straw from under the hat of a scarecrow. Bagged eyes that were raw and bloodshot from tears stared out from above plump, reddened cheeks.<p>

Girlfriend material for a young student she was not, but if Sam had had any doubt about the reciprocal nature of the fond relationship between this motherly-looking woman and the murdered boy, her devastated appearance killed it stone dead.

A burly arm held the door open for him as he stepped into her shabby office. The juxtaposition between this room and the one he and Dean had visited on the Stanford campus just days earlier couldn't have been more stark: grubby, grey filing cabinets owned one wall; a sagging paisley-patterned couch with stuffing oozing from a deep slash in one of the maroon tinged cushions claimed another; broken blinds with several slats snapped in half attempted valiantly to shield the room and its occupants from the afternoon sun's blinding rays; and the linoleum flooring had several tiles missing.

There was nothing remotely pretentious about the room, nor its occupier. In fact, both looked almost apologetic for even existing.

Maria followed the young hunter into the room and gestured wordlessly towards the couch before sidling behind a heavily scratched wooden desk that wouldn't have looked out of place in a poorly funded classroom. Come to think of it, Sam wouldn't have been at all surprised if that was exactly where it had come from.

He sat gingerly on the edge of the couch, the notebook intended to reinforce his cover as a reporter for the student paper perched precariously on his lap as he pulled the cap off his pen. "Thank you" he murmured politely, averting his eyes awkwardly as the older woman let out a wet sob and reached for a tissue from a nearly empty box on her desk. They'd all been used that day, if the waste bin overflowing with scrunched up tissues was anything to go by.

"I just...can't believe it" Maria ground out with quick shake of her head and a blown nose that rang through the musty air like a foghorn call. "He was here just two nights ago...and now...God, such a lovely boy. He really cared, you know? Everyone here _loved_ him..." She broke off to wipe a burgeoning tear.

Sam opened his mouth to interrupt - wanting to move past the inevitable eulogy to get to something he could actually _use - _but immediately snapped it shut again as she continued. "Do you know what the funniest thing is? I didn't even want him to volunteer here at first; I've had so many bad experiences in the past"

Sam readied himself to ask a question once more, but again was prematurely cut off. "Students from the university...they're only really looking for something to put on their résumé, you know? I've had so many of them in the past who waltz in, expect to hand out a couple of soup bowls and then waltz back out again like they're some kind of heroes. Mike wasn't like that. He treated all of our clients like the people they truly are. He saw past the dirt and the grime...none of that mattered to him"

She sniffed once more, eyes still periodically leaking water, but she appeared not to need the tissue still clutched in her beefy fist. "I guess I shouldn't really have been surprised, because actually he _did _come personally recommended"

"Really?" Sam frowned, pen poised against paper. Something intangible was humming inside him. He couldn't have articulated the reason why, but this felt important. "Who by?"

"Well, by one of the academic advisers over at the University. Joseph Fitchpatrick"

Sam's pen dropped to the floor with a startling clatter as the colour drained from his face. "E-Excuse me?" He was amazed at the steadiness in his hand as he blindly bent to retrieve the pen, while inside he was reeling, the sound of his panicked blood rushing deafeningly in his ears.

"He's a patron of this shelter you know, always organising fundraisers for us. Told me I couldn't find a more kind hearted, charitable soul, was downright _pushy_ if I remember correctly. But he was right of course"

"H-he was, huh?" It was a wonder he could get any sound past the dryness in his throat. It was a wonder he was even speaking coherently. His thoughts were whizzing past conscious interpretation so fast that words, pictures, feelings were jumbled and blurred together. _Ohgodohgodohgod!_

Suddenly Sam saw it all with a horrifying clarity. It disarmed him completely like an iron punch to the gut; nausea and acid burning at his throat as he realised how _stupid_ he'd been. All the friggin' neon signs they'd both missed. That _he'd_ missed.

And god, the way the creepy bastard had salivated over his brother...he'd friggin' _joked_ about it. He'd thought...and the whole time Fitch had been busy marking Dean for death; the bastard had been planning how to abduct his brother and murder him.

Sick to his stomach, the young hunter almost moaned out loud as Maria continued to witter on in the background. He was vaguely aware that he ought to have at least been pretending to write some of it all down, but he was too busy wondering how he could have missed the obvious sings – the ones that had been dancing around in front of him, waving their arms frantically and screaming at the top of their lungs. He was too preoccupied beating himself senseless for the hapless way he had failed to protect his brother.

How could he have been so oblivious? How could he have missed...?

And just _thinking_ about that slimy sonofabitch being anywhere _near_ Dean was making his skin crawl and his insides writhe. If he laid so much as a finger-

He had to get out of there. Right the hell now.

There was a bullet burning a hole in his gun with Joseph Fitchpatrick's name etched all over it.

* * *

><p>"You're right Sam" Zach glanced up from the laptop as Sam slalomed wildly through the thickly clogged Palo Alto traffic, narrowly avoiding oblivious cyclists and kamikaze pedestrians who seemed to wait until the last possible moment to dart out across the road. Every red light seemed to hold a grudge against him, and only the concern that being stopped by the police would hold them back even more stopped him from just barging through each intersection.<p>

Sam risked a brief questioning glance at his friend as he slammed on the brakes to avoid hitting a car that had randomly decided to swing out in front of him from a parking space.

"He was adviser to all of them" Zach confirmed gravely with a disbelieving shake of the head. Jake they had known about already, and once more, Sam racked his brains to figure out how the friggin' hell they hadn't even checked the guy out.

"Sonofabitch!" Sam muttered vitriolically, slamming the palm of his hand on the steering wheel. If he thought he'd known anger before...He felt as if his brain would literally explode and shatter his skull from the furious pressure within.

Riley, who had been having a muted cellphone conversation in the back, hung up with a snap and leaned forward. "And apparently the guy took a real big interest in peoples' lives. Jenna just told me that Jake had never even considered Political Science before he came here. The guy used to go on about how Fitch had 'set him on the right path'. It was like the sonofabitch was a _saint_ or something. _And_ he's only been on staff here for a few years"

Sam's teeth were grinding together with such force he half expected them to crack and crumble to pieces in his mouth. The work they had done on this hunt had been sloppy indeed. They'd been so focussed upon their own problems, their own resentments. They should never have gone into this hunt with the issues they'd had. It was pretty much their father's golden rule.

But hindsight was a cold-hearted bastard.

God, how he wished he'd never let Dean out of his sight. If-_When_ he got his big brother back, he was damn well making sure it didn't happen again, even if he had to keep him cuffed to a chair – or better yet, Sam's own wrist.

The one thing he still didn't understand was how the fire fitted into the picture. It made no sense. If Fitch had set his sights on Dean from the start, why had he attempted to kill Sam? To get him out of the way for easier access to Dean? If so, then why take the risk that his brother would go in after him and die trying?

Sam shook his head. He didn't have the time to focus on details. Those could be worked out when Dean was tucked safely away and Sam could breath clearly again. Every ounce of his attention now had to be on finding out where the devil-worshipping maniac was hiding his brother.

The obvious place to look for Fitch was back on campus, though Sam didn't really think it would be that easy; a conclusion that turned out to be disappointingly accurate when the young hunter, this time flanked by his friends, barged in on the prim receptionist, Ms Currie and demanded entry to Fitch's office.

She looked up, startled as Sam shouldered his way through the stiff oak door to her small wood-panelled room, and made to open her mouth in immediate censure when the young hunter beat her to it. "I need to see him _now_" he ground out without preamble, coming to a halt before her immaculately polished desk – trying not to remember the way his brother had leant casually against it as he'd flirted with her just days previously.

Her recognition was almost instantaneous, and she glanced at Zach and Riley with a disappointment she was too professional to voice but which Sam rapidly picked up from the slight levelling of her mouth. It seemed Dean's absence was affecting more than just his little brother. If the older man had been here, Sam was sure she'd have been eating out of his hand as she had done the last time.

The straight-laced receptionist cleared her throat authoritatively and shot Sam a disapproving frown. "Now, young man, that is no way to talk-"

"Is he here, or is he not?" Sam cut across her, having no interest in listening to whatever lecture she was nearly leaping out of her chair to provide him with. There was no time for this, and he had half a mind to tell her who she _really_ worked for. Then they'd see just how _she_ chose to talk...but no. If Sam had his way, she'd be finding out soon enough. Through the news media. When the police arrested Joseph Fitchpatrick for multiple homicide.

"W-well!" Ms Currie sputtered, wide-eyed and clearly flabbergasted at Sam's boorish behaviour. Like he gave a damn.

Ever the one to pour oil on troubled waters, Zach laid a restraining hand on Sam's shoulder and pulled him back slightly. "Listen, Ms Currie, we're sorry" He turned placid eyes on the flustered woman. "We just really need to speak with Mr Fitchpatrick. It's urgent. Life or death. Is he available today?"

Ms Currie seemed glad to be able to avert her attention from the danger Sam was exuding like fumes from a flammable chemical seconds away from igniting. She accepted Zach's apology with a curt nod before replying. "As it happens he is _not_ here today. He called in sick this morning but has assured me that he will be back tomorrow" The woman puffed out her chest self-importantly, clearly proud that she had been entrusted with this vital information.

Sam nearly groaned out loud as he squeezed his eyes shut frustratedly. Why the hell hadn't he just phoned ahead? Because he hadn't wanted to give the bastard any kind of heads-up.

It was like hitting one dead-end after another, and keeping the panic at bay was becoming an ever increasing struggle. He felt as though he was continually trying to plug the holes that were springing ever more frequent leaks in his emotional dam. But sooner or later he would run out of ways to stem the flow. God, he needed Dean.

And to make matters oh so much more convenient, the exhaustion, pain and dizziness that adrenaline and medication had heretofore kept at bay, were now back with a menacing vengeance. They seemed particularly angry that Sam had managed to evade them for so long.

When he forced his eyes open once more, he caught Zach's gaze raking worriedly over his features. Even Ms Currie was watching him with concern, looking like she thought he might keel over at any second. Through the newly re-awakened pounding in his head he sent his friend a reassuring glance, momentarily surprised when the other man merely stared blankly back at him.

Oh, right. Not Dean.

"I'm okay" He murmured softly, translating the Winchester special code.

Nobody was looking convinced however. Dammit, how did Dean always manage to get away with this? Pretending to be all right was definitely harder than it looked.

"Uh, should I call-" Ms Currie began, hand darting towards her telephone, all previous sternness having evaporated in the face of Sam's obvious suffering.

"No...uh, no. He's just coming down with something. It seems there's a bug going around" Zach hurriedly replied, sending a significant look to the closed door of Fitch's office.

The receptionist nodded, but still looked as if she wanted to intervene. "Okay. I'll leave a note for Mr Fitchpatrick, let him know you wanted to speak with him"

"Oh, that won't be necessary. I'm sure we'll catch him soon"

* * *

><p>They drove, tyres squealing all the way, Zeppelin's <em>Kashmir <em>blasting from the stereo like a call to arms. Sam had always felt Dean's presence around him when he heard music like this – even when he'd been at school, all he'd had to do was catch a few bars of Zeppelin and as if by magic, his brother was beside him. He'd often found himself gravitating towards music stores that routinely played Dean's favourite songs in the background - usually during periods when he was particularly missing his big brother - until he'd eventually given in and bought several CDs. Dean had never known of the purchases - all evidence having been eliminated in the fire - and if Sam had anything to do with it, he never would.

Besides, he'd _never_ hear the end of it.

Sam wasn't bothering with traffic lights in this quieter part of town, figuring – whether correctly or not – that the Palo Alto PD would have better things to do than patrol the apple pie, suburban wonderland that Joseph Fitchpatrick had apparently chosen to set up home in.

More sickening for Sam was the fact that this was exactly the type of neighbourhood that he'd dreamed of living in, all grand verandas, bay windows, and clusters of sumptuous trees. All through the years spent moving from motel to motel, squatting in empty houses, and rare occasions luxuriating in dingy rented apartments, he'd lain awake at night thinking of the wonders of having the house, the white picket fence and the backyard. He'd yearned for a home. A real, permanent home. One that he could decorate and fill with children. He and Jess had even talked about this neighbourhood as being a possibility for when they were both qualified and ready to set up house.

But apparently he had the same taste as a raging psychopath. Not the most reassuring realisation.

Home. The term danced across his mind with the sure step of certainty as large, ostentatious houses flashed by in his periphery. He hadn't realised until recently how much he'd come to associate such a concrete term with the decidedly fluid life he and Dean led. But there it was, Dean – in his gruff, brash, and sometimes obnoxious way - had come to represent the comfort and safety of home.

If he lost his brother, he lost everything.

After hastily making their escape from the shrewd eyes of Fitch's receptionist, they'd immediately raced back to the Impala and scrabbled for the laptop. Zach had irritatingly withheld the computer from Sam until he'd agreed to down some more painkillers, and while he privately acknowledged that they'd probably help him in the long run, taking the pills wasted vital seconds.

It hadn't taken long to hack into the campus network to locate Fitch's address, and Sam had felt the heady mix of nervousness and determination flood through brain and limbs as he realised how close they were. No more than a few minutes drive. _I'm coming bro_.

They pulled up a few houses down from the one supposedly belonging to the academic adviser, and Sam would have laughed out loud at the innocuousness of this ridiculously pretty chocolate-box dwelling – if the situation hadn't been so unremittingly unfunny. The man who had spent centuries, perhaps even millennia, murdering innocent people chose to live in a canary yellow colonial bungalow with pristine white balconies and ornate balustrades. Prominent bay windows were amply garnished with Spring flowers that dripped luxuriously from wrought iron window boxes, and the well shorn lawn had clearly been landscaped by a professional. Or maybe Fitch had just become a _really_ good gardener over the years.

As he surveyed the structure, Sam half expected the Waltons to come tumbling out the front door – if this had been rural Virginia. How could someone so evil end up in a place like this? Someone who, by all accounts, had ripped his soul to shreds in the most brutal of ways?

The young hunter turned from the house to give his friends an assessing look. If Fitch was there, if he had Dean in there...well Sam wasn't planning on taking any prisoners.

"Look, this could get dangerous. You guys should wait here-" he began, intending to sound authoritative.

"Are you out of your mind?" Riley got in there before Zach had even opened his mouth, but the other man's protest wasn't far behind.

"Sam, we wouldn't have come this far with you if we weren't serious about this" If the calm certainty in Zach's tone had been anything less than it was, Sam would have refused. But he'd never seen his friend so determined. "I mean it, Sam. You're not going in alone"

Sam had a brief moment where he conceded the ridiculousness of the serious way they were contemplating breaking into this quaint, pretty house, as if it was a military bunker. He wanted to argue further, but didn't want to waste the time. Twin clenched jaws stared uncompromisingly back at him, and Sam sensed the futility in trying further to persuade them to remain behind.

He nodded. "All right. But I'm going to do a recon myself" He opened the door with its usual creak, wincing as the sound echoed down the sleepy street like a gunshot. "I'll call you"

Stepping onto the wide pavement, the younger Winchester surveyed his target. The doorway was irritatingly prominent and unimpeded in view from the road by the vegetation that otherwise surrounded the house. He hadn't planned on ringing the doorbell anyway.

That would have been an interesting conversation. "Hi there, Fitch. I believe you're keeping my brother locked up in here somewhere before you kill him. Mind telling me where he is?"

Somehow he didn't think that approach would be very successful.

No. He'd go around the back, sneak a peek in through some windows, check if there was a basement.

Steeling himself, he reached around to run a reassuring hand over the gun at his waistband, and wandered nonchalantly along the street until he reached the garden of the house belonging to Fitch's next-door neighbour. The absence of a car in the driveway had him hoping that no one was home. Of course, Fitch's driveway was also empty, but he wasn't dwelling on that.

Slipping through the dense foliage that joined the two gardens, Sam got his first close up look of the academic adviser's home. It was superlatively pristine, much like his Stanford office. Not a blade of grass out of place, nor speck of dirt on the white windows.

Jeez, either the guy was a textbook case of OCD, or cleanliness was a sign of psychopathy. Or maybe he was just a neat freak.

Moving stealthily around the house, noting no signs of a basement or garage, he systematically checked the rooms; raising his eyes bare millimetres above the window sills and quickly scanning the interior.

Ugly, vulgar pieces of furniture populated the space inside, artfully arranged as if every item had been positioned with careful precision. There were – bizarrely enough – frilly cushions on the flower-patterned sofas, and lace doilies protecting the chair arms. Chintzy lamps were dotted throughout, some sitting atop lace covered end tables, others standing proudly in corners. The kitchen looked as if it hadn't ever seen a crumb of food within its four walls, with stark white wooden cupboards and a gleaming granite surface. The three bedrooms Sam had located didn't look like they had ever been slept in.

There was no clutter. Nothing to indicate that anyone occupied the space. No photos on the mantel, no clothes airing in the garden.

Sam's stomach dropped.

There was no one living here. Probably hadn't been for a few years now. If Sam was to check, he'd most likely find that the last person to really live there had been an elderly woman who had, in all probability, died there too.

He closed his eyes in agony. They could go inside and look around, but he already knew they wouldn't find anything. Still, they couldn't leave without checking. It was the only damn lead they had, and Sam wasn't ready to let go of it yet.

So he called Zach and Riley, and they slipped stealthily into the backyard, copying his earlier approach through the neighbouring garden. Granted, their effort could have used some work, but they'd followed his lead with disconcerting ease. Again he had the fleeting thought that he was tainting his friends' lives, corrupting them.

He picked the back door lock at a more relaxed pace than he had Anderson's apartment. He had no real fear of being caught now.

They entered through the kitchen and scattered throughout the dowdy bungalow checking drawers, wardrobes, desks for anything remotely useful. Sam's earlier deduction had been more than adequately proven when he found no clothes in the master bedroom, no toiletries in the bathroom, and no food in the kitchen. The only sign that Joseph Fitchpatrick had any connection with the house was the small stack of unopened mail sitting on a desk in the hallway.

Sam had no doubt that this house acted as a cover for the adviser whenever he needed to host people, or flesh out his background for anyone who thought to enquire about him. But clearly that was as far as it went. The place was, for all intents and purposes, an empty shell.

And Sam wanted to scream until his lungs collapsed and his throat closed over.

There was nothing. God, there was absolutely _nothing_.

He had to swallow back a sob as he realised he'd hit another brick wall. He'd been so sure he was getting somewhere, that he had a real chance of finding his brother before it was too late. The dam was close to breaking now, and he had very little left to give.

The hand on his shoulder stilled his rumination. "I'm sorry man" Riley murmured, sensing Sam's gut-wrenching despair.

Sam just shook his head and swallowed again, feeling panic's tell-tale drum beat beginning to vibrate within him.

"Hey" Zach's voice came from somewhere to his left, and he looked down at him through eyes that were more than a little blurry from his frustrated tears. "We can't give up Sam. He must have another place somewhere. We just need to find it"

"Yeah?" Sam snapped suddenly, infuriated that his friend didn't appear to understand the seriousness of their failure. "And how are we gonna do that? There's no way he's gonna have been stupid enough to use his own name!"

Zach barely batted an eyelid at Sam's tone, the shock he'd shown just days earlier looked to have given way to a resigned acceptance that the younger man's anger seemed to spark at the slightest provocation; or at least, any situation where his brother was involved. "Yeah, I get that Sam. But your brother wouldn't give up on _you_, that much I know"

Damn it, he wasn't giving up! He _wasn't_. He just didn't know what to do, and the fear was seeping through the cracks in his composure, turning logic into mush and determination into despair. It was as if part of him had already accepted that he couldn't save his brother, and had begun prematurely grieving for the loss.

But Zach was right to have said what he'd said. Dean wouldn't have allowed his fear to drive him to aimlessness; which was, ironically, the reason he was in this mess in the first place. His brother's damn bravery.

No, he couldn't give up. He'd fight to the last second. It was no less than Dean would do - had _done - _for him.

* * *

><p>The room was twirling like one of the merry-go-rounds that Dean Winchester had always hated as a child. He'd never understood the desire to revolve at dizzying speed on a brightly coloured yet sinister looking metal structure, hanging on for dear life as the world whipped past, only to stagger off afterwards and vomit into the nearest bin. Sammy on the other hand, had <em>loved<em> the friggin' things. And he _never _wanted to go on one by himself. Oh no. Dean _always_ had to go on with him. He'd swear the little jerk had done it on purpose.

But he'd never once let Sammy go on alone. No matter how much he'd hated it.

Moving dry eyes painfully around in burning sockets he tried to make sense of surroundings that now seemed blurred and shapeless. He was fairly certain he hadn't been moved from the room he'd started off in, but that was as far as conscious thought was capable of taking him at that point.

His body was a great shuddering lump of jabbing, nauseating pain. He couldn't feel his hands any more, in fact, every limb seemed to have downed tools and gone on strike. He was slumped to the side, as he had been that first time – and the countless times he'd awoken since. But there would be no moving this time, not with the ton weight of exhaustion permeating his entire being. He couldn't even summon the energy to turn his head.

The only movement he could attempt with any obvious result was in his eyes; and of course, the periodic shivers that racked his disobedient frame.

He attempted a blink as a bead of sweat dripped into an eye, but his motor response was so delayed that the salty liquid slithered in regardless. God, he was miserable. Even the electrocution had been more pleasant than this.

If a fly had decided to square up to him at that point, Dean didn't think he'd have been able to put up much of a fight. The useless pile of flesh and bones that he was now made his condition after the heart attack look glowingly healthy.

And not only was his body letting him down, but his spirit was as close to being broken as he would ever risk admitting to himself. After the umpteenth time his mind had made him watch his little brother's grisly death, after bearing witness to the snap and crunch of limbs being broken and torn from his body to the accompanying melody of excruciating agony, after listening to his mother gleefully telling him she'd always hated him...

Jeez, his mind was screwed up. Every dose of Fitch's special brew seemed to start up a whole new film reel of nightmares; his subconscious helplessly working against itself to torture him interminably with his deepest, darkest fears.

He had no idea how long he lay there, eyes half-open and dull, slouched over like a beached whale. The only audible sound coming from his laboured nasal breathing, and the clink-clink of the plastic ties around his wrists hitting against the pillar as he shivered. At one point he'd closed his eyes, and hadn't wanted to waste the energy re-opening them; and so they'd remained shuttered until the thud of approaching footsteps echoed dully from behind the heavy door. The rapid speed of the steps might have indicated excitement, or anger, or something Dean couldn't bring himself to care about. It was all going to end the same for him either way.

The young hunter didn't bother acknowledging the person entering the room; not even the sharp crack of the slamming door could rouse his interest enough to make him open his eyes. Whenever anyone came into the room, it usually meant some kind of unpleasantness was about to befall him, and he'd endured it so many times now that it had almost ceased to concern him.

Almost.

The footsteps came to a halt somewhere in front of him, and he waited for the usual taunt and tap to the cheek that usually heralded another shot of Fitch's secret recipe. This time though, there was nothing. Fitch, or Nathaniel, or hell, it could have been George friggin' W. Bush for all he knew, seemed content to stand and study him. It was almost curious enough for him to want to open his eyes.

Almost.

He wasn't expecting the sudden kick to his gut.

Fire exploded in his belly as he bucked backwards at the force of the blow, his head ricocheting off the ground and his shoulders wrenching. He choked on the meagre breath he'd been able to pull through his nostrils, panicking slightly at the struggle for oxygen. His eyes flew open involuntarily and he found himself staring into Fitch's apoplectic features.

Gone was the flamboyant charisma that had previously decorated the man's expression, in its place was a hardened jaw, grimly straightened lips and furious eyes that had narrowed into slits – giving him the look of a snake out for blood. The image was only strengthened when the older man opened his mouth, fangs bared, and practically hissed at the elder Winchester.

Dean could only stare back at him through watering eyes as his lungs continued to complain urgently about the lack of available air.

"Well, it seems your _brother's _been a busy bee in your absence"

Dean snorted despite his breathing difficulties. He couldn't help it. _Busy bee?_

Fitch sneered at Dean's amusement. "He's been poking his nose in where it's not wanted; trying to ferret out the truth about me"

_Ferret?_ Oh jeez, the animal metaphors were getting a good airing today. Dean rolled his eyes, the only available outlet for the sarcasm he was just _dying_ to get out of his system.

"Oh, you find this funny do you, Dean?" Fitch spat. "Well, Sam might have gotten further than I thought he would, but he won't get here in time to save you. _Oh_ no. Even so, he's still an inconvenience I can do without. I don't need him messing up my future plans"

_Atta boy, Sammy!_ Dean cheered silently, brotherly pride swelling within him like an expanding balloon. His little brother was out there looking for him, was trying to get to him. Hope snagged his emotions and grabbed hold. Sam would find him. If anyone could, it was his little brother. He felt suddenly bolstered, drawing from the faith he had in the boy he had raised almost single-handedly.

His triumph was short-lived.

"But don't worry" Fitch was continuing pompously through Dean's introspection. "Nathaniel will take care of him"

As the older man's words filtered through the fog in his mind, Dean's gaze snapped to Fitch's face with an almost audible crack, horror he couldn't hide bleeding out through his gaze. There were so many ways the demon could strike his brother, stealthy modes of attack Sam wouldn't see coming. _Oh god, Sammy please be okay._

Dean's eyes flitted around helplessly as he tried to come to terms with what Fitch had told him. It didn't help that the older man looked considerably cheered at the hunter's distress. Dean didn't care what happened to himself, but he was terrified that his little brother would pay the price for his own carelessness. If Dean hadn't been so stupid as to go running alone into that alleyway, if he hadn't let Nathaniel get the drop on him...and now here he was, a powerless prisoner. Unable to do anything to protect the one person who mattered most to him in the whole world.

Fitch smirked at his discomfort. "Never mind, we've got plenty to be getting on with here" the smugness was back in full force now, the storm of earlier anger having apparently evaporated in the sunny face of Dean's fear. Twisted sonofabitch.

The older man flicked out a knife, seemingly from nowhere – and Dean couldn't think of anywhere he'd have had space to hide it in that silly smock-thing he called a shirt – and moved around to the back of the pillar. Dean tried to turn his head to see what the other man was doing, but his skull was still refusing to cross his body's staunch picket line.

As it turned out, the manoeuvre would have been redundant anyway, for Fitch's actions soon became obvious when his bound wrists were snatched up in disgustingly smooth fingers and the plastic ties hacked away – along with several layers of Dean's skin. The elder Winchester couldn't suppress a small groan of pain as blood suddenly flooded through arteries that had been too long compressed. He tried to flex his fingers, to move his arms, but they flopped uselessly to the floor like rubber when Fitch let them go. His ankles were a depressingly similar story.

When the tape finally came off his mouth, Dean found himself savouring the feeling of air rushing over his lips and across his tongue. Whatever small pleasure he gained from this simple act was however, vastly overtaken by the extreme humiliation he felt at being unable to move even though he was now, essentially, free. And then there was the small matter of the fact that Sam was unknowingly being pursued by the demon Nathaniel.

If Dean had thought he couldn't feel more ashamed, he was unpleasantly surprised to find that there were new depths to which his soul could plummet. For he'd barely gotten used to having freedom of movement – _yeah, right_ – before Fitch was before him once more, sliding his arms under Dean's armpits and beginning to haul him upwards.

_Come on! Move, twitch, do _something! Dean screamed internally as he was manhandled in Fitch's arms like a baby. But his limbs lolled limply at his side, his heavy head rolling forwards to rest – horror of horrors – on Fitch's shoulder. Even the sickly sweet scent of the older man's cologne was enough to turn his stomach. "Don't usually...get this frisky...on a first date" He croaked out through parched lips, and was rewarded by the laughing shudder of his shoulder-pillow.

"Oh, I think you probably do! But anyway, this hardly counts as a first date, Dean. We _did _spent the night together, after all! And anyway, we're about to go on a very special journey together"

_Oh god, Sammy, just friggin' get here. Any time now. _

_Oh, and please don't die._

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! Hope it was worth the wait! Let me know if you enjoyed...<br>_


	14. The Unfaithful Servant

Hi everyone!

Thanks so much for all your lovely comments, and favourites/alerts - you all continue to surprise me, and have spurred me on to get this chapter posted!

Hope you enjoy! :)

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><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 14 – The Unfaithful Servant**

Sam Winchester felt numb. Not the kind of pregnant tingling that usually preceded a paralysing bout of pins and needles, or the kind of strange swollen dullness that he usually felt after some kind of anaesthetic injection.

No, this was a nothingness that pervaded body and soul. It was as if his brain was processing information that wasn't going any further than sensory perception. He was a passive receptacle.

He was sitting on one of Riley's rickety dining chairs staring blankly at the same map of Palo Alto that he'd had in front of him for the past few hours. He wondered if it was actually possible to hate a city more than he did his old stomping ground in that moment. The criss-crossing streets he'd been attempting to decipher since the three of them had reached Riley's apartment earlier were starting to wriggle before his eyes, taunting him, hiding their secrets and refusing to share.

After the disastrous search of Fitch's house, the three of them had relocated to Riley's small apartment – it being nearer than Zach's – where, thankfully his roommate was visiting family, to begin plugging new avenues of research. Sam had also insisted on replenishing his stocks of holy water on the way, something he knew he and Dean should have done as soon as they had realised there was demonic involvement. But then, they'd been a little preoccupied. And hadn't that been the problem from the start?

The others had arrived at Riley's not long after, having been hastily assembled and brought up to date by Zach, and now every available chair was being occupied - right down to a novelty pink inflatable seat, for which Luis had drawn the short-straw. Sam would have been sadistically amused if he hadn't been so wrapped up in his own devastation.

Riley's living room was in sharp contrast to the Warrens', but it reminded Sam painfully of the apartment he'd shared with Jess. There were clear thrift store purchases occupying prime floorspace – the tired red flannel couch peppered with crumbs and shrivelled popcorn being an obvious example, along with Sam's own paint flecked chair and several mismatched others. The burgundy crocheted throw on the couch had been made by an old girlfriend of Riley's that Sam vaguely remembered, and he wondered fleetingly if his friend was keeping it as a memento or if he was just too lazy to get rid of it.

A sludge-coloured, threadbare rug that Sam had nearly tripped over several times now barely protected the modesty of scratched wooden floorboards that creaked when weight of any kind was settled upon them. The only overtly new item in the room was the large flat screen television that was clearly cherished, and had been given pride of place as the centrepiece of the room above a somewhat dilapidated fireplace.

No one was paying attention to the television now of course.

The plan had been to cross-reference possible locations near to where bodies had been discovered with property sales over the past few years. Fitch had to have bought a murder house somewhere in the city on or after his arrival there. It had seemed a plausible line of enquiry, but it had turned out to be like wading through quicksand whilst wearing a pair of flippers and carrying a bowling ball in each hand. Every name that was flagged up had to be thoroughly checked, and there appeared to be endless amounts of properties that had been bought and sold over the past few years. There was also the unwelcome thought that perhaps Fitch had bought whatever place it was decades ago. Who knew how long ago he'd planned his locations?

And then there was the fact that the bodies seemed to have been dumped entirely randomly. There was no convenient radius from which to establish a centre point. But Sam couldn't think what else to do, and he was friggin' well not giving up. So he'd been reading out the names of possible areas to check, while Riley, Kate and Rebecca looked for property sales. Then Luis, Zach and Elena were looking into the names of people that had appeared suspicious.

There had been an exciting moment early on when they'd checked for properties purchased at around the same time as the house they knew about - Fitch's sham home. There had been a few possibles, including a warehouse in the industrial district. But in the end nothing had come of it.

And so Sam had felt any semblance of hope ebb slowly from his body like a waning tide. His friends had noticed, of course they had, but no one was mentioning it. Everyone was keeping going, resolutely attacking each street name Sam tossed them like dogs scrapping for a piece of fresh meat. And Sam loved them for it, but he wondered if they really realised how fruitless the situation was.

The earlier fault lines of tension had all but abated, and no one was talking about the disagreement over Zach and Riley's involvement in Sam's criminal activity. And as grateful as he was towards them, Sam didn't know if he had quite forgiven the others yet, especially Luis' comments about his missing brother.

A sudden rapping on the apartment door cut through the buzzing hum of activity in the room like a thunderclap, and several people – Sam included – visibly jumped at the noise, Rebecca dropping her note pad and pen with a papery splatter. There was a brief moment where everyone stared at each other with conspiratorial fear, like drunken teenagers about to be caught with empty bottles, before Luis sheepishly cleared his throat.

"Uh, sorry, guys. I kinda ordered some pizza..." The apologetic smile vanished instantly under the tsunami of Sam's sudden fury, exploding from within him with the force of a supernova.

"You what?" Sam's voice was low, always a sign of his most lethal wrath. The younger Winchester could shout and bawl and bang his fists along with the best of them, but it was when his voice dropped in pitch that he became his most dangerous. The only person who didn't shy away from him when it appeared was Dean, all other beings retreating into hiding with some deep, primitive self-preserving instinct that told them to be very, very afraid.

Which was exactly why Luis suddenly paled and scrambled squeakily up from his bouncy chair, nearly tipping backwards in his haste. "Look, Sam...Sam, I'm-"

"My _brother_ is about to be _murdered_, and you ordered _pizza?_" The room burst into an almost thrumming silence as Sam took a slow, purposeful step towards his now visibly quivering friend. He could feel days worth of anger, terror, guilt and frustration boiling within him, begging for release. It seemed he had just acquired and locked onto his target. He'd been fantasising about rearranging Luis' face for days now, of turning him into something Picasso would surely have been proud of.

Just then, the knocking sounded once more, rattling through the crackling stillness like machine-gun fire and halting Sam in his predatory tracks.

"Someone should get that" Zach suggested, voice outwardly composed, but Sam could tell there was real fear buried beneath the layers of well-practised calm. The young hunter couldn't blame him; he was out for blood now and they all knew it. He was almost past the point of no return.

Silence. Followed by another barrage of urgent tapping. More forceful this time, insistent.

"Okay, _I'll_ get it then" Zach announced with an uncharacteristic roll of his eyes. Well, Sam supposed, everyone had their limit - and he knew he'd been pushing the older man towards it for days.

"That is one persistent pizza delivery guy" Kate muttered with a snort as she turned her attention back to the growing stand-off between Sam and Luis.

When Zach opened the door – which swung inwards on the living room – Sam couldn't help the suspicious glance he cast over the intruder. Hunting instinct. He'd never really lost it. He remembered a time when Jess had called a plumber out to their apartment one day after Sam had tried unsuccessfully to unblock the kitchen sink - something he'd never actually done before, and had figured, how hard could it be? Pretty damn difficult, as it turned out. He could still feel his cheeks burn with shame at the thought - of his poor attempt to be man of the household. As the podgy, shabby-looking plumber worked away with embarrassing ease, Jess had been watching and chattering happily with him while Sam had been relegated to the role of supervisor. But he hadn't been able to stay his caution, so he'd stood in the background listening to their chatter, a rock salt canister hidden under his hoodie as he'd pretended to sip from a glass of holy water.

The pizza boy looked young; somewhere around their age, or perhaps more youthful still. A mop of thick raven hair was barely contained by a dark blue baseball cap that bore the insignia _Joey's Pizza_ stitched across the front in gleaming white. A stocky frame was crammed into a too-small sky blue uniform that looked to be bursting at the seams, and despite his anger, Sam couldn't help but wonder if the boy _ate_ more pizzas than he ended up delivering.

"I got...t-three pizzas h-here" He stammered as he heaved the large boxes into Zach's unprepared grasp. The older man took a slight step back to balance the extra weight he'd found himself carrying, and the delivery boy's cobalt eyes suddenly met Sam's. It took the young hunter a split second to realise that there was recognition in the boy's gaze, as if the eyes had sought him out like heat-seeking missiles.

Something wasn't right.

Zach was shuffling the pizza boxes in his arms as he tried to locate some money in his jeans pocket, and the room's other occupants were still dividing their attention between Sam and a still cowering Luis like a salivating audience waiting for the beginning of a prize fight. No one had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

"Christo" Sam muttered on impulse. The reaction was immediate.

The boy hissed and jerked backwards as if Sam had doused him with a vat of boiling water, and his mouth curled into a snarl as blue eyes suddenly disappeared under a film of deepest black. Zach dropped the pizza boxes with a heavy thwump as if they'd just turned red hot and stumbled backwards with wide eyes, his gasp lost amongst the collective intake of breath from the others that seemed to suck all the air from the room.

Sam froze as he stared at the demon growling before him, heart playing a painful bongo drum rhythm in his throat. He had just enough time to scream at his friends to grab the holy water they'd picked up earlier before he was thrown backwards, hitting the living room wall with a resounding crack and finding himself pinned there, the impact stealing the air from his punished lungs and jarring his too-tender head.

For a shocking, terrifying moment, nobody moved. Elena was clinging to Riley, a shaking hand covering her gaping mouth. Riley himself seemed rigid with fear. Luis hadn't moved an inch from where he had retreated from Sam's fury earlier, bulging eyes glued to the pizza delivery _demon_. Even the perpetually unruffled Kate was looking rattled, cowering in her chair with quivering lips and heaving chest. Zach was still looking shellshocked from _actually_ coming face to face with something supernatural, lips flapping like a flag as he stood quietly panicking.

If Sam had had the time to truly analyse the situation, he might have been mildly surprised to learn that the person who was looking the least petrified was actually Rebecca. And that it was she who eventually made the move, who finally managed to snap out of fear's all encompassing choke hold. She scrabbled for Sam's duffel, flailing madly for one of the small flasks of holy water and pivoting towards where Sam was being pinioned by the demon.

Sam's eyes flew frantically around the room as the demon approached him slowly, a grin spreading across his round face like malevolent sunshine breaking from a storm cloud. Finally the hunter's gaze landed on Rebecca as she paused before them, raising her arms in clueless helplessness. _She __doesn't know what to do with it!_ he realised belatedly as the demon came to a halt before him.

One raised fist from the dark-haired demon was all it took before Sam's insides were writhing in agony, contracting and rippling with scorching intensity. He thought he could actually feel his cells being ripped apart at the seams, and couldn't suppress the piercing groan of pain tearing past his throat as he screwed up his face against the onslaught. "Becca!" He ground out, feeling darkness teasing at the edge of his vision.

There was an incoherent yell, followed by a splash and the sizzle of rising steam, and all at once Sam felt the force pinning him to the wall recede and he stumbled forwards. Barely coordinated limbs struggled to contain his weight as he dove for his duffel. "Get the salt _now!_" he gasped as his hand mercifully closed around the smooth leather binding of his father's journal.

As he whirled round he caught sight of Riley sending a shower of rock salt over the spitting demon, and howled an incoherent objection as the demon retaliated by sending the blond man slamming into the flimsy dining table with a flick of the wrist, which splintered and collapsed under the other man's weight.

"You think a little salt and holy water are going to finish me?" The demon spat, teeth bared as small amounts of steam continued to rise from his raw skin. He leered at Rebecca, a burst of energy sending her flying over the couch and into a crumpled heap in the corner.

"Becca!" Zach screamed in terror and rushed immediately to her side.

Sam felt his features harden. "No. But _this_ will" He murmured softly, a smirk devoid of any amusement tugging at his lips. Then he began to read.

An expression of what Sam was sure was genuine surprise crossed the demon's face as it instantly began jerking and twitching in agony to the sound of the rite. The young hunter remembered the first time he'd used it, on that seemingly doomed plane all those months ago. On that occasion they'd had to eliminate the demon as quickly as possible so that they could save the plane from nose diving into oblivion. This time he had a different job to do.

He stopped reading after the first line. "Where's my brother?" He demanded with deadly calm. It seemed unlikely that this was in fact _the_ demon Angranos that was collecting the sacrifices, but Sam knew with unflinching certainty that this one was involved in his brother's kidnapping. And that was more than enough reason to cause it as much pain as possible.

The demon merely cackled with evident pleasure at Sam's obvious anxiety for his big brother and lunged towards the younger Winchester. But the impact Sam had been expecting didn't arrive, for Zach Warren had planted himself steadfastly before the young hunter, sending a wave of holy water arcing out to soak the advancing demon. "That's for messing with my sister, you sonofabitch!" He roared in a display of anger so unusual Sam had to stop himself from sending a "Christo" test his way.

Nevertheless he smiled grimly, faintly impressed at his friend's bravery, and continued to read from the journal. This time the demon screeched in pain, features contorting disgustingly, and jerked backwards.

"Where's Dean? Tell me where he is!" Sam commanded, pushing Zach roughly out of the way with one hand as he continued to read.

In the back of his mind, Sam wondered vaguely why the demon didn't just abandon ship and escape into the ether. But for once, luck seemed to be on his side, and he wasn't going to question it.

There was an almost unnatural hush in the room as he paused now. Nobody moved, nobody spoke. It was almost as if nobody even breathed. Sam's friends had apparently been struck dumb by the entire exchange. Out of the corner of his eye he could see that Rebecca and Riley appeared to have survived their impromptu flying lesson, though admittedly sporting more than a few bloody souvenirs, and were watching with barely concealed awe. Even the demon seemed loath to break the spell.

Sam had no such qualms however, and on the continued lack of the response he was looking for, continued to read the exorcism rite, relishing the obvious agony he was causing the black-eyed sonofabitch. On some level he was more than a little concerned about what he might do when he reached the end of the rite without having received the answer he so desperately needed. If he exorcised the demon without getting his brother's location, then it really was game over.

In the end though, he needn't have worried.

"Wait!" The demon moaned, breath coming in short, sharp heaves. The young hunter took a few seconds to obey, waiting deliberately for the moment when the demon thought he wasn't going to yield. "I'll tell you where he is!"

Sam stopped instantly.

"But you need to set me free" The demon continued, calmer now that it sensed it had Sam's attention. "If you send me back to Hell, you'll never find your brother. I can tell you where he is, but only if you set me free"

Sam blinked at the demon in confusion, anxiety mixing with curiosity. He was so close now, Dean nearly within his grasp. But to set the demon free? What the-? Then realisation dawned. "You're his Familiar" He guessed, knowing he'd struck gold when the demon merely sneered at him in response.

Zach stepped forward once more, a canister of rock salt held rigidly before him like a pinned grenade. He looked more than ready to dispense its contents at point blank range, but Sam held up a hand to stop his motion. He needed to get the measure of this new turn of events.

"You're bound to him in some way" He deduced with a smirk, unable to hide the feelings of schadenfreude the realisation evoked.

The demon laughed mirthlessly. "That putz might have had enough intelligence to fulfil Angranos' requirements, but he isn't a real witch. He's just some blithering idiot who stumbled across a book of black magic – which is where he found the binding spell" He paused, and sent Sam a knowing look. "I'll give you Dean if you break it"

"Okay" Sam couldn't even bring himself to hesitate. Freeing a demon went against every fibre of his being, against everything he had ever been taught, against _right_. But dammit, all of a sudden none of that mattered. What the bastard was offering...nothing else was important. He needed to get to his brother, and he really didn't care what that took. He'd realised not too long ago, that if Dean died then _he _would too. There would be time later, as with Roy LeGrange and the tethered reaper, to analyse the lengths to which he had gone to save Dean, and what it said about him. But at that moment time was in frighteningly short supply.

"What do I need to do?"

"Fitch has a shrine...on it is a bronze icon bearing the figure of Itharacos" At Sam's blank look, the demon waved an impatient hand. "Never mind, just destroy it - especially the stone embedded at the tip"

"You have my word. Now tell me where the hell my brother is"

The demon nodded in acknowledgement. "Bring me the map" he ordered imperiously. All humiliation or anger at having been nearly exorcised apparently having dissipated at the thought of genuine freedom.

When nobody else moved – most likely still in shock at events that Sam had learned to deal with many years ago – the young hunter moved swiftly to retrieve it. "Here" The demon pointed to a spot in the Purisima Creek region, an area of dense forestry with a collection of Redwoods Sam could remember visiting one day with Jess and her family. "Fitch owns a cabin". He proceeded to reel off directions as Sam hurriedly scribbled them down. He couldn't afford to mess this up any more than he already had.

Sam glanced up from his notes as the demon made a dramatic show of checking his watch. "Oh...I'd hurry if I were you" were his parting words before he suddenly blinked out of existence.

"Wait!" He called out, but he was too late; the demon was long gone.

The younger Winchester clenched his fist and spat out an expletive. The black-eyed bastard hadn't even told him long it would take to get to the cabin. "Does anyone know how long it'll take to drive there?" He demanded of his stunned friends, too panicked to care how pale and shaken they looked.

When nobody responded, he thumped the wall with his fist. "Come on!" He yelled impatiently when they flinched at the unexpected action.

It was Luis who stepped forward, warily as if he thought Sam would hit him on principle alone. For his part, Sam hadn't yet ruled it out. "Okay, look, I've done a few field trips out there. You can definitely get there in under an hour"

Sam nodded, silently thanking his friend for the information, before he turned towards his duffel and began swiftly collecting together the items that had been scattered during their fight with the demon and shoving them carelessly into the bag. "I'll get there in half that" he announced resolutely, pausing for the briefest of moments as he held Dean's gun, making silent promises before reverently placing it with his other weapons.

He zipped up the bag with practised haste before turning to face his friends. He stumbled to a halt when he realised they had also been gathering their belongings together.

"No way" He commanded, not willing to give an inch, and not wanting to waste valuable time arguing.

When Riley opened his mouth to protest, split lip still oozing blood from where it had connected with the splintered table, Sam immediately shut him down. "It's too dangerous. I'm doing this alone. End of. I need to get Dean and I can't be worrying about you too"

With mundane predictability, Zach waded in. "Sam, I still owe you guys. I'm coming with you"

"Zach, you can't keep using that. You've paid us back several times over already!" Sam hurled back, swinging the bag over his shoulder in a gesture of impatience.

"That's where you're wrong!" Zach was now toe-to-toe with the younger Winchester, though he didn't have the height to make it as intimidating as he perhaps would have liked. "I can't _ever_ pay you back enough. But I _can _help you get your brother back"

Sam grit his teeth in frustration. He didn't have _time_ for this!

"Besides Sam. I'm sure you're a great hunter and all, but even _you're_ going to need back-up to bring Fitch down, break the binding spell and get Dean out"

Sam closed his eyes and huffed out a breath. "Okay, fine!" He ground out. "But hurry up!"

"Whoa, Kate there is _no _way you're coming too" Luis put out a hand to prevent the dark haired girl from getting to her feet. "I think all you girls should just stay here"

"Are you kidding me?" Rebecca exclaimed in outrage, a trail of dried blood from a wound above her eyebrow standing out starkly against her fair skin. "Luis, could you be any more of a misogynistic-"

"It's too dangerous!" He barked in response.

When Kate would have protested, Sam stepped in, arms waving in a 'cut-it-out' motion. "Just shut up, all of you!" He bellowed, long past the end of his endurance. "I don't care if you come or not, but cut the crap and stop wasting time!"

When all he received in response were gawking mouths and bulging eyes, he lowered his voice but did nothing to remove its lethal edge. "Work it out amongst yourselves, but I'm leaving _right_ the hell _now_!"

With that, he grabbed at the door handle and wrenched it open. Zach was close behind him, and as he stomped down the corridor towards the stairwell, he could hear the older man's parting shot in the background.

"Becca, you're hurt, you need to take it easy. And I'd better not see you up at that cabin"

Big brothers.

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><p>The stone altar was cold. Not the searing chill of solid ice, more a dull, aching frigidity that seeped up through Dean's bare skin and settled into his bones so that he could no longer tell whether his shivers were the result of Fitch's poison or his body's homeostatic response to the lowered temperature.<p>

Fitch had generously left his jeans on – and Dean didn't even _want_ to think about how humiliating the alternative would have been - but his bare back and arms offered more than enough opportunity for the unforgiving cold to work its magic. He longed to do something, anything, to bring some semblance of warmth back into his being, but restrained as he was, his options were somewhat limited.

Okay, they were _completely_ limited.

He shifted in his bonds, trying to find any slack in the leather straps that held him firmly against the altar, but Fitch had been irritatingly conscientious in tying him down. And if Dean could bear to remember those hideous moments where the phoney adviser had been tightening the straps, he'd have to acknowledge that the other man had enjoyed it just a little too much for his liking.

Hearing Fitch shuffling around in his periphery, he attempted to turn his head for a look at what the other man was doing. With the thick leather strap across his mouth anchoring his head in place however, he could do little more than blink uselessly up at the ceiling. The pressure on his jaw was starting to turn painful, and he unsuccessfully tried to work it away from his mouth to ease the strain.

The only movement possible was in the flexing of his fingers, and he abruptly remembered Michael Edelman's hands twitching frantically during the ritual.

_Oh crap. This is really happening, isn't it?_

Not being able to judge the progression of the ritual, Dean jumped in surprise as Fitch's voice sounded suddenly from somewhere beyond his toes. The other man hadn't said a word to the hunter since he'd bound him to the altar, and had been pottering around softly in the background. There was a smell of burning incense hanging in the air, and Dean realised he remembered it from Edelman's sacrifice though he hadn't been aware of it at the time.

It was the same Latin incantation as before, and Dean blinked feverishly as Fitch caressed the words. He could feel his breathing start to quicken as he braced himself for the feeling of serrated metal against his skin. Through the soft murmurings, Dean could hear the squeaky approach of Fitch's sandalled feet, and caught a glimpse of black cloth out of the corner of his eye.

He swallowed against his still swollen throat and tensed as he felt the air stir next to him as Fitch's voluminous cloak brushed past. Dean held himself completely still as the older man stopped at his torso, still murmuring the Latin sweet nothings. At the glint of the curved blade as it came to rest on his chest, Dean finally realised that this was it. Sammy wasn't coming.

There was no way out.

He prayed that Nathaniel hadn't gotten to his brother, that he was okay. Sam would be devastated, he knew, but there was nothing he could do about that now.

He closed his eyes as Fitch paused in his incantation, forcing himself to remain silent as the blade sank into his skin. Michael Edelman's terrified moans still rang fresh in his mind, and he just couldn't go out that way. He found he was unable to contain a sharp indrawn breath however, as he felt beads of blood begin to bloom and seep from the wound.

Fitch's face was turned slightly away, but Dean was sure his features would show the same trance-like euphoria he had witnessed during Edelman's murder. He wondered if the other man was even truly present in the room.

All at once, Fitch's hand moved and the knife tantalisingly began to draw a large circle of fire on Dean's chest, rendering all his grand plans of staying stoic completely useless. The pain of the wound he could have handled, it wasn't anything he hadn't dealt with before.

No, it was when the Latin began again that he could no longer keep his silence. His blood had ignited at Fitch's words, burning and boiling in his veins.

He writhed helplessly in his restraints as the blood began to trickle over his skin to pool at his side.

And he screamed.

* * *

><p>Sam urged the Impala onwards, clinging on to the steering wheel for dear life as he pushed the Chevy at a speed that would have left his missing big brother feeling equal parts pride and fury had he been there to witness it. Pride at the skilful way his little brother directed the car to hug the road's winding curves and surge along the straights; fury at the the number of near misses, skids and bounces the car had endured along the way.<p>

Every time the Impala crashed back down on the asphalt after leaping over a concealed bump, or fishtailed to send pebbles skittering upwards to pelt at the undercarriage, the younger Winchester braced himself for the lecture that was usually forthcoming. For the demand that he pull over because he was abusing his brother's _baby_. For the growled threat that if he didn't respect the Impala he'd be hitch-hiking his way to their next gig.

But there was only silence from the passenger seat as a green-tinged Zach braced himself with white-knuckled fervour against the door, holding himself rigid as he forced his gaze forwards.

Not a word had been spoken throughout Sam's attempt to break the land speed record; the young hunter focussed unwaveringly on the road in front of him, and the older man lost in thought about god only knew what. Sam didn't care enough to ask. If Dean had been the one next to him, he might have worried over the continued silence. Would probably have been concerned enough to pester him to open up and tell him what was wrong. But that was the point. Zach wasn't his brother, and he never would be.

Sam was trying not to think about how close to midnight it was; was trying desperately not to imagine what might be happening to his brother at that very moment. Was he in pain? Was he afraid? Did he have faith that Sam would find him? Or had he lost all hope of his little brother coming to his rescue?

The younger Winchester knew he could only look back on their previous arguments with pain and regret, and he wished with an almost child-like earnestness that he'd let his big brother know how much he appreciated and needed him. Their last words...Sam couldn't bear the thought that Dean would die not knowing the depth of his little brother's regard for him.

Dean had to know that his little brother would walk to the ends of the earth for him. He had to know that whatever petty differences they had, whatever harsh words were spoken, that Sam would never abandon him to die; would do everything in his power to save his life, no matter what the cost.

But Sam's anger had ruined all that. His desire to stoke his wrath, to bury his grief under a mound of rage...it had coloured everything. He'd allowed it to taint his relationship with Dean. And that was unacceptable. He knew he'd need the fury, knew it would be a vital weapon in his war against the demon that had killed the two women most important to him. And he knew it would most likely rear its ugly head again in the future, all matters relating to _the_ demon being an unassailable blind spot for his emotions.

But he'd been the one to put Dean in danger. He knew that. And it was something he had to put right. He couldn't even consider the possibility that he wouldn't get the chance.

They were getting close to the turn off now, to the gravelly, rugged track that would lead them up to Fitch's cabin, and that would no doubt play havoc with the Impala's suspension. Well, Dean would just have to accept that as collateral damage, and Sam was more than willing to endure whatever scolding or griping his brother wanted to dish out as a result. He just wanted him back. Right now.

The forest was almost pitch black, the deep green of the thickly leaved canopy above forbidding any borrowed starlight from filtering down to aid in their journey. The Impala's lights sliced sharply through the darkness, but seemed to struggle to illuminate anything further than a few metres in front of its bumper.

There was something sinister about forests at night, Sam had always thought. It was amazing how the absence of light could make one of nature's most intricate purveyors of ecological equilibrium turn from the beautiful ornaments of rural scenery into ghostly figures and shadowy creatures, cold and malevolent as they stood in closed ranks.

Everything was silent apart from the ferocious sound of the Impala's engine, growling angrily as if it too knew the gravity of the situation. As if it too wanted vengeance for their stricken family member.

Both Sam and Zach leant forward, trying to see through the darkness for the tell-tale break in the surrounding foliage that would indicate the presence of another road. Anticipation held their voices captive as they scanned their surroundings, until Zach finally let out an incoherent sound and shook a pointed finger frantically at a junction that appeared to be approaching far too fast for the younger man to be able to make the turn safely.

Sam, however, was on a roll. And he wasn't above believing that maybe the Impala was calling some of the shots, for they made the turn with a minimum of screeching tires and frenetic wheel grappling; swinging onto the track at the last minute with a dexterity that the young hunter wouldn't have believed possible. Except perhaps if his big brother had been at the helm instead.

Zach let out a 'whew' of breath before turning to stare at Sam with something akin to awe paling his already ashen features so that he looked almost spectral in the dim light.

Sam gave a slight shrug in return, not willing to take credit for the kind of manoeuvre that he felt he could only have managed by the purest stroke of luck.

The surrounding vegetation seemed to grow more tangled and dense as the younger Winchester eased the car along the jolting surface, not wanting to add the screeching of scraped metal to the already worrying level of noise his brother's beloved car was blasting out like a battle cry. The darkness had taken on an almost unbearable expectancy, humming through the air and vibrating his heart until it began pumping into overdrive.

At each twist and turn he half wondered whether Fitch would leap out from behind the trunk of one of the trees, or if the demon would appear suddenly in the Impala's headlights bearing a mocking grin and a raised fist.

"How far are we from the cabin?" Sam broke the silence for the first time, his voice sounding raw and croaky from lack of use through a throat that had seemed to grow a permanent lump since he'd found Dean's gun and phone in that alleyway.

Zach started at the unexpected sound, his fingers groping blindly for the scrunched map that had slipped from his lap during their flight from Palo Alto. With shaking fingers he smoothed it out and began to trace out their route. He glanced up from his task as the car rumbled across a small wooden bridge that spanned a gently oozing stream, eyes brightening as he noted the landmark.

"I'd say we're about half a mile or so" He murmured, as if worried that speaking at normal level might give their position away.

Sam nodded as he considered the landscape before him. Seeing a promising spot on the curve of a bend a few hundred metres away, he began to slow down, finally pulling off the track as the ground evened out.

Zach was looking quizzically at him as the young hunter killed the engine and began to reach for the door. "Why are we stopping here?" He whispered, voice now lowered even further in the bereft silence left by the absence of the Impala's engine.

"In case you hadn't noticed, the Impala's kinda loud" Sam tossed back as he pushed the door open, wincing as the resulting creak neatly ratified his argument by ricocheting noisily through the army of trees protecting Fitch's cabin. "We can't risk Fitch hearing our approach. I don't want to do anything to make that sonofabitch feel like he needs to hurry up"

Heading towards the trunk, he shot Zach a meaningful look as the man mirrored his movements. "You have to follow my lead" He asserted as he popped the trunk and lifted the lid with businesslike briskness. "Don't try to be a hero"

In answer he received a - not unexpected - roll of the eyes. "What, like you, you mean?"

Sam paused, hand stilled in its position on the false bottom that concealed their cache of weaponry. "I mean it, Zach, or I'll friggin' cuff you to the wheel and leave your ass here"

"Okay, okay" came the more placatory response, underlined with a sincerity that was about as satisfactory as Sam was likely to get. He nodded at his friend's flimsy capitulation.

Sam began gathering weapons enthusiastically, like a ravenous child faced with a bountiful pick n' mix display, while Zach watched uncertainly.

Knowing his selection needed just one final addition, Sam stepped back slightly as he lifted his trusty black Beretta into his grasp and began slotting in a fresh clip of bullets. At Zach's baulking expression, he hesitated, looking questioningly over at his friend.

"I thought you guys didn't kill humans" the older man was looking at him strangely. _With fear_, Sam realised suddenly. It was an expression he was unaccustomed to seeing on his friend's features, though he'd been steadily awaiting its appearance ever since he'd returned to Palo Alto. It hurt more than he'd thought it would.

Nevertheless, he couldn't afford to dwell on it. His reply was a cold, hard look as he tucked the gun into his waistband.

Ignoring the implicit disapproval in his friend's silence, he picked out a shot-gun that was loaded with rocksalt bullets and held it out to the older man. At Zach's look of horror, he relented. "It's rocksalt. It won't kill him. But it'll hurt like hell" He explained in an unconscious imitation of that fateful Asylum incident. He blanched slightly as he realised what he'd said, but quickly hardened his heart.

He couldn't think about that right now.

Oblivious to Sam's internal recriminations, Zach was gingerly fingering the gun, turning it over in his grasp as if he didn't quite know what to do with it.

"You probably won't need it" Sam reassured him. The young hunter had no intention of killing Fitch

There was no way he wanted to be responsible for taking a human life, even one with soul in tatters like Fitch's. The phoney adviser might have mutilated his humanity beyond repair, but killing another person was a line Sam never wanted to have to cross. He ignored the small voice at the back of his mind that told him he might have to if it meant saving Dean.

Despite his intent not to kill, he needed the gun to be a proper deterrent. He most definitely was not averse to shooting in order to incapacitate rather than kill. His finger was already itching in anticipation of sending a bullet into the psychopath that had kidnapped and tortured his brother. He almost hoped Fitch fought back and gave him reason to.

Checking over the salt and lighter fuel he had packed, he shut the Impala's trunk with a determined thunk and turned towards the track. Keeping his part of the bargain to the demon meant destroying the black magic shrine and the icon that sat upon it – the source of Fitch's power over his hellspawn slave. A good, old fashioned salt and burn.

Nodding to each other, they started moving as one; stalking carefully towards the cabin. And Dean.

Sam wanted nothing more than to race in all guns blazing, but they had to do this right. They had to take their time, couldn't risk alerting Fitch to their presence or they could lose Dean, if they hadn't already. Yet another place Sam _wasn't_ going right now.

Zach had been watching his young friend for a while now as they stuck to the shadows, seeking out the darkness like frightened rodents hiding from an owl's beady eye. So it was no surprise to Sam when he heard his friend's hushed voice rustling through the night like a footstep on dry Autumn leaves. "We'll get him back Sam, he'll be okay"

For his part, Sam ignored him, keeping his mouth in a straight line and his gaze focussed onwards. He appreciated the attempt to reassure him, he really did, but the vibes of brotherhood that had so comforted Sam at Stanford in the past were now painful reminders of the brother he needed so badly. Of the brother he was terrified he was going to lose.

So he kept his game face on, and refused to even acknowledge that 'failure' was a word that he knew the meaning of.

After what seemed like an eternity, Sam's sweeping gaze finally landed on a small, rugged looking structure just visible between the knotted branches of a group of gnarled trees. His hand shot out and gripped Zach's arm with vice-like strength, bringing his friend to an immediate halt as he considered the modest cabin before him.

The worryingly _dark_ cabin before him. The cabin that showed not one hint of human habitation.

Oh, god. Please, not again.

Zach was looking faintly sick too. "Sam...what if that _thing_ was lying? What if-"

"Just shut up, okay?" Sam hissed, more than aware that his friend might have been quite right, but there was no way that thought was even entering his head.

They needed to check the place out. It was frighteningly silent and bleak, but it was his last hope. He felt fear's icy fingers clamp around his heart as he began to slink forward, his hand maintaining his grip on Zach's arm, dragging him along like a wayward child.

Sam's mind was whirring as they approached the cabin. Normally he and Dean would have put their well rehearsed routine into practice when attempting to infiltrate a building like this, but there was no way he could allow Zach to run around unsupervised. The young hunter felt too responsible to let the older man go around the back by himself. So, the front door it would have to be.

The younger Winchester signalled to Zach that he would stand on one side of the door and the older man should stand on the opposite side, before remembering yet again that his friend didn't possess a copy of the Winchester-English dictionary. He quickly hissed out the instructions, and received an understanding nod in return.

Taking their respective positions at the doorway, Sam reached gingerly across to try the handle.

Locked.

Pushing down the tendril of fear that escaped his rapidly decomposing wall, he pulled out his lock pick set and crouched before the door with barely a whisper of movement. Within seconds he felt the tumbler shift open, and he again moved back into place beside the doorway. Sharing a significant look with a trembling Zach, he pointed to himself to indicate that he would be going in first and waited for his friend's flicker of understanding.

He leant over once more and pressed the door handle. The door swung open slowly, and when nothing happened, Sam held up first three fingers, then two, then one before throwing himself through the doorway and into the gloom, gun raised and rigid.

Sensing no immediate threat – and pushing down the disappointment that was starting to rise like heated Mercury in his veins – he motioned for Zach to enter behind him, and began to move through the cabin.

There wasn't much to see. The cabin had three rooms decorated in what might have been generously called 'rustic chic'. An open plan kitchen/living area with splintered wooden furniture and a ramshackle stone hearth took up the majority of the floor space. There was a matted bear skin rug providing the somewhat morbid centrepiece to the room - the head frozen in teeth-baring anger - and a rickety grey formica covered dining table in one corner partnered with a single forlorn-looking folding chair.

A poky separate bathroom boasting a mouldy shower and a toilet darkened with stains Sam really didn't want to identify led off the main room, next door to a separate bedroom with a lumpy double bed and limp curtains hanging half off the rails. It didn't take long to work out that it was empty of human life. Even if a more thorough search turned up EMF or sulphur, it didn't change the overall outcome.

Returning shakily to the main room in panicked defeat, Sam felt light-headed with horror and loss as burning tears of raw agony pricked at his eyes. This was it. He had failed.

His brother was going to die and he was too late to do anything to save him.

Suddenly two hands grabbed his shoulders roughly, and he glanced up through blurry eyes to find Zach's excited face peering at him. The young hunter frowned in confusion, and opened his mouth to voice the question dangling on his lips, but the older man quickly held up a finger to shush him, and pointed frenetically towards the putrid bear skin rug...where one rumpled paw clearly unveiled the lines of a trap door in the floorboards.

Sam's eyes widened as his heart leapt excitedly to his throat to begin gleefully dancing an energetic jig there, and he shifted carefully over to the rug, drawing it gently aside to reveal a gleaming iron handle – easily the newest item the cabin possessed. Exchanging a grim look with Zach, he gripped the heavy ring.

And pulled.

* * *

><p><em>Sorry...cruel, I know, but I just couldn't resist leaving it there! Thanks for reading! :) Let me know if you enjoyed!<br>_


	15. Emotional Rescue

Hi everyone!

Well...I guess this is the chapter a lot of you have been waiting for! This was one of the biggest chapters for me to write, because it was the one I most looked forward to - so I hope it turned out okay!

I haven't had time to check this over to the same extent as I normally would, so please forgive any mistakes!

This is the last chapter I have already written up, so it might take a wee while for the next one. But I'll be home in a few days and I'll get right on it! ;)

Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 15 – Emotional Rescue**

Dean Winchester was almost incoherently delirious. His eyes rolled wildly as pain's extensive and sickeningly varied collection of white-hot knives pierced and carved at every inch of his body in ever more disgustingly creative ways, the feelings sending his world lurching madly in different directions though he was held infuriatingly rigid against the stone altar. The conflicting sensations congealed into a large rubbery ball of nausea in his already aching stomach. He could feel the beads of sweat gathering upon his feverish brow, threatening to overflow spectacularly with a force akin to the Niagara Falls, and the ceiling above him was putting on a quite incredible display of swirling and churning fireworks as his thorny blood tore through his veins and ripped them to shreds.

His weakened frame quivered and trembled uncontrollably in his bonds - the motions as alien to him as if he had been plugged into an electric generator - leaving him utterly unable to suppress the helpless flailing of his hands as Fitch tormented him with that damned ceremonial blade. He screamed against the gag once more through his raw and mutilated throat as the deranged sonofabitch seemed to dig a particularly deep gash in his lower abdomen, the molten blood spilling and oozing like lava down his side.

He strained pitifully against the straps holding him - his vision temporarily blanking out in a haze of brightest white as he accidentally ground his abraded wrists against the leather - all the time knowing the futility of his actions. The agony seemed to echo outwards from every cell in his body with ever greater amplitude, denying him the dignity of being able to remain silent and stoic. But Dean was long past the point of shame. Every last shred of pride he'd tried to hold against himself having been long ripped from his battered fingers by that black-robed bastard and his serrated monstrosity.

One more stroke of the knife ripped a lighter groove in Dean's skin, and the elder Winchester managed this time to keep his reaction to a low moan of despair, resignation seeping into his consciousness despite the almost transcendental nature of the pain. He realised now, with a moment of unexpected coherence that Fitch had nearly completed the sigil, and felt his breaths shudder traitorously as the air grew suddenly pregnant with the same unnatural force that had held the room spellbound during Michael Edelman's sacrifice; during that period of airless hush that had immediately preceded the entrance of Angranos' black demonic cloud.

He could remember only too well what he had witnessed during the young student's murder.

And Fitch had only to carve one more line.

Dean felt the jagged edge of the blade lift slightly from his chest as the older man began his final line of the incantation, ugly reverence bleeding into every word. The air around him began to stir minutely, and Dean caught brief glimpses of Fitch's black costume as it fluttered past his restricted gaze in the breeze. It was close now, he knew, and through the blinkered haze of pain and delirium that made him feel as if his brain was being sucked upwards through a drinking straw, the only thought he was capable of focussing on was of his little brother.

_I'm sorry, Sammy_.

The blade came to rest on his chest for the last time, the razor sharp edge almost caressing his skin as Fitch began to press down.

He closed his eyes. Preparing. Waiting for the moment, waiting for the darkness.

He was going to die. And there was nothing he could do to stop it.

_You deserved a better life. I'm sorry I wasn't good enough._

He felt the blade slice downwards.

Just then, a glorious, miraculous voice rang out from behind him, cold with a blazing fury that struck through the air with the blow of a physical punch. A voice he'd never thought he'd ever hear again.

"Touch him again and it'll be the last thing you ever do"

Dean's eyes flew open and he let out grunt of surprised recognition – and pure, intoxicating relief flooded him like an opiate as he realised that the demon hadn't got to him; that he was _okay_ – as his little brother's voice sparked sharply like a lightning bolt through the electric air that charged the room.

He tried to turn his head to catch a glimpse of his little brother, but it was once more held firmly, depressingly in place by the strap across his mouth. Unable to do anything but blink uselessly upwards, he didn't think he could have felt more helpless as he waited impotently for Sam's rescue. The elder Winchester began struggling involuntarily once more - feeling that doing _something_ was better than doing nothing at all - but stopped tensely when he felt the knife being slowly removed from his body. Frowning frustratedly, he remained unable to catch sight of his brother - to check him over and satisfy himself that Sam really _was_ unharmed - but knew he wouldn't get anywhere close until Fitch had been subdued. He'd trained his little brother too well.

"Sam Winchester. I wasn't expecting to see you so...alive" came Fitch's greeting, tone ostensibly composed, overlaid with the slimy smarminess he'd worn with flamboyance back on the Stanford campus, but this time with a delicious hint of worry that had Dean suddenly smiling behind the gag. The swell of pride he felt blossoming within him at his brother's incredible appearance overridden only by the cloying concern that Sam might still get hurt in his attempt to rescue his big brother.

"Drop the knife and get away from him or you'll be dead before you hit the ground" came Sam's unyielding rejoinder, and the elder hunter found himself feeling a curious mixture of warmth and humiliation as he heard the angry, protective tone in his brother's words. He lay there, bound and prostrate, feeling very much like the Hollywood damsel in distress cliché tied to the tracks in the path of an oncoming train as his kid brother swooped down in all his glory to save him. And not liking it one bit.

There was a brief silence, and Dean fumed silently at his inability to see what was going on around him.

Suddenly a shot rang out, the sound ricocheting around the small chamber with the intensity of a nuclear bomb, followed closely by the sound of Sam yelling something that Dean couldn't quite catch over the reverberation of the gun fire. Startled, he flinched, tugging at his restraints as he let out another involuntary sound. His brother's gun. He'd recognise the report anywhere.

Sam had still not addressed him.

"Zach, destroy the shrine..._all _of it" The elder Winchester's brow creased once more at the knowledge that Zach Warren had apparently accompanied his brother to the rescue. He wasn't quite sure what to make of that. He supposed he ought to be grateful that someone had been there for Sam, that his little brother hadn't had to deal with this alone.

That he'd had his superior surrogate brother to help him.

Now that the immediate danger seemed to have passed - and Dean had every confidence that Sam had the situation under control - the abused hunter felt his entire body sink downwards, muscles and joints justifiably staging a mass walkout after their mistreatment. The throbbing, stinging pain of the wounds was now much more distinguishable in the absence of the Latin spell, and every slight movement resulted in a sharp jab to his gut that almost sent him retching each time. His blood at least, had cooled to a temperature that was at least bearable without causing him to howl in agony.

Those small mercies again.

In his periphery now, he could see the movement of his brother's friend as he stalked purposefully down towards where he knew the black magic shrine stood, the outline of a sawn-off shotgun raised and pointed off in the direction that Fitch must have been standing. He was kind of impressed, despite himself. Not that he wanted another reminder of how friggin' perfect Zach Warren seemed to be.

The viewpoint was brief, and all too soon Dean was once more oblivious to the events taking place in the chamber. There was a shuffling sound – Zach's footsteps, he assumed – followed by two almighty crashes that seemed to shake the whole room and a howled "_No_!" from Fitch that sounded so unlike the devil-worshipping adviser that Dean briefly wondered if someone else had come into the room that he hadn't known about.

"Tie him up" came Sam's voice once more, clipped and restrained, and lacking any of the warmth that made him _Sammy_; that made him Dean's little brother. But this was Sam the hunter, and when he got going he could be as frightening as any hunter the elder Winchester had ever come across; even their father

And then suddenly he was there, at Dean's side, reaching across the older man's line of vision with trembling fingers to unbuckle the strap covering his mouth.

One glance at his little brother's face told Dean all he needed to know about how Sam had dealt with the previous twenty-four hours; the haunted eyes, the furious set to his jaw, the distress that radiated palpably from every pore on his face; all the turmoil that he'd kept buried under his succinct speech, but that he couldn't hide from the big brother who knew him inside out. The big brother who'd spent his life learning to read him. The big brother who'd raised him.

But the expression that stood out above them all, beaming out from him like a beacon on a starless night was the frantic concern that softened his brow and twisted at his mouth, the stark worry that relief's salve hadn't yet diminished.

How could he ever have doubted how Sam felt about him? The way his brother was looking at him now, with undeniable adoration – which Dean would never admit to having witnessed, even on pain of _death_ – was all the proof he should ever have needed about his place in Sam's world.

Zach who?

When Sam's fumbling fingers finally removed the gag, the elder Winchester closed his eyes briefly in silent acknowledgement of his relief; his elation that Sammy was there – and in one piece – and that he, himself, was not going to die.

He flexed his jaw at the absence of the pressure of the leather strap, feeling the crack of too tense joints and the symphonic throb of freed muscles, and finally allowed himself to meet his brother's intense gaze. His brother was looking at him so tenderly it was almost painful. So he did what he always did when faced with emotions he didn't know what to do with.

He deflected.

"You know your timin' could use a little work Sammy!"

* * *

><p>Sam huffed out a breath in what he had intended to be a laugh in response to his brother's strained attempt at humour, but it came out sounding more like a sob when he heard the devastating weakness in Dean's hoarse voice. That damned dividing line between laughter and tears was becoming ever more blurred, so much so that his emotions seemed to have gone haywire. He didn't want to think about how long his brother had to have been screaming for his words to sound so ragged. But he was here now, and it was over.<p>

He had Dean back.

"I was just keeping you in suspense, man" He answered, his own voice nearly breaking as the gravity of how close things really had been hit him squarely in the chest. The sheer pain, vulnerability and exhaustion in Dean's unusually unguarded eyes made his breath catch in his throat. He'd never seen his big brother look so breakable, like a porcelain doll that could shatter at the lightest touch. His protective instincts flared once more with a whoosh like dry kindling lit by a spark, so overwhelming that he felt he would literally have dismembered anything that came within two metres of Dean - dangerous or not.

Once he and Zach had heaved the trapdoor open - the smoothness of the motion indicating that this was a hinge that was fastidiously well oiled - they'd discovered a solid-looking step ladder leading down some distance into a surprisingly well-lit corridor, with rough white plastered walls, a stone flagged walkway and tacky fake candle wall-sconces replete with pretend waxy drips – like a bad attempt at modern medieval décor.

The younger Winchester had kept his gun drawn in front of him as he'd stalked down the corridor, Zach close on his heels – more out of fear than eagerness, Sam had concluded - but had come to a stuttering, involuntary halt at the cusp of a sharp corner, shocked into immobility by a gut wrenching sound he knew he'd never forget. Ever.

His brother's muffled screams.

He'd felt his muscles seize up on the spot, horror and revulsion almost stopping the flow of blood to his heart. Sickened, he'd hardly dared to wonder what was happening to his brother to make him sound like that. His brother, who had endured life threatening injuries more times than Sam could count, and who had never screamed with such unbearable agony. Who had never screamed _at all_.

Panic and anger had mixed potently in his mind once more as he'd crept up to the open, bright doorway that had stood brazenly around the corner, his sure feet barely whispering against the echoing stonework, gun grasped resolutely in his hands like a life-line. He'd felt Zach shivering behind him once more, the trembles so great they seemed almost audible as they vibrated the air.

The young hunter had peered carefully around the door frame to catch his first glimpse of the scene beyond, and it had taken every fibre of his core to stop himself from rushing headlong into the room to grab that black swathed maniac and tear him away from Dean. The sadistic sonofabitch who had been at that moment, leering over his brother – bound and gagged and bloody on some horrific stone altar – an ornate, gleaming blade in hand, poised and ready on Dean's torso to make the final incision in Angranos' sigil.

He was sure that his heart had exploded into a messy pulp in his chest as he'd realised how close Fitch was to taking his brother from him permanently. His finger had twitched reflexively on the Beretta, but he'd stood his ground - needing to remain calm; terrified that he might risk losing Dean to a stupid mistake that might result from him acting on his knee-jerk reaction to his brother's peril.

Dean had been relying on him, and he'd known that following his father and brother's meticulous training was the only way to save him.

And, god, he really had cut it too damn close. He'd had to quell the bubbling swell of acid that burned in his throat as he'd realised that had he been just moments later...He'd had to push aside that harrowing image down into the depths of his mind, where it was sure to torment him for months – maybe even _years_ afterwards – and he'd stepped with effortful calm into the room, gun pointed with compass precision at Fitch's heart.

The murdering bastard had been so caught up in torturing his helpless brother that he hadn't even noticed the younger Winchester's entrance; the phoney adviser had been gazing down at Dean with a hungry expression so ardent that Sam nearly lost all his hard won control and shot him straight through the heart.

Sam had announced his presence sharply, all of the crippling fear and anger he had managed to suppress from his face seeping down into his body to claw at his insides. Despite the restraint in his voice, he hadn't known if he'd be able to keep himself together as his finger continued to twitch convulsively on the Beretta's trigger.

He hadn't removed his eyes from Fitch's draped figure - knowing that to do so could have meant a fatal error - but in the periphery of his vision he'd been achingly aware of Dean's smothered grunt of recognition, of his weak struggling, of the blood flowing sluggishly from the barbaric cuts on his chest, of the appalling way he'd been strapped down.

He hadn't even been able to see Dean's eyes, hadn't been able to give his big brother the reassurance of that nonverbal communication that came as naturally to them as breathing. But he'd had to push aside these feelings, couldn't let them cloud his judgement. He'd known that they would most likely have an appointment booked to visit him as soon as he fell asleep – and had noted faintly that those timeslots seemed to have been getting filled with increasing regularity since he'd started hunting with his brother again.

Fitch had removed the knife from Dean's chest with tantalising slowness at Sam's command and had turned to greet the young hunter in a manner that attempted to sound cocky and unconcerned, but Sam had easily recognised the older man's surprise, and the satisfying hint of worry that he hadn't quite managed to conceal - though the outwardly pompous mask gave nothing away.

Sam hadn't bothered to return the courtesy of acknowledging the other man's reception. He'd merely ordered the sonofabitch to get the hell away from his brother, knowing how dangerous he'd sounded - though he'd had to work very hard to quell the frightened quivers that had just been dying to escape - and knowing that Fitch had heard it too.

But the bastard still hadn't reacted in accordance with the command - sending the younger Winchester an infuriatingly condescending smirk - and had still been far too close to Sam's helpless brother for the hunter's liking, knife still clenched in his fist.

The threat to Dean far from being diminished, Sam had swiftly raised the Beretta from where it had been trained unerringly on Fitch's heart and had fired a bullet straight over his shoulder into the wall behind, startling the older man – who had dropped the knife like a hot coal and had flapped backwards at the near miss, looking like a disturbed crow in his black robes.

"Now!" Sam had bellowed, trying again to ignore Dean's instinctive groan at the gun fire.

Fitch had finally moved backwards more deliberately, looking as if he had finally understood that Sam was not going to tolerate disobedience. His once rugged, glowing face had begun to look weak-chinned and weedy in his submission, his outline ridiculously voluminous in his embroidered cloak.

Sam had been somewhat suprised at the speed with which Fitch had capitulated. But then, he'd supposed, perhaps the longer one clung to life, the more frightening the prospect of death became. And Fitch had been clinging for a _long_ time. Then there was the fact that the older man had a seat booked on the one-way Hell Express as soon as his lights went out.

No wonder the gunshot had startled him.

The younger Winchester had breathed a momentary sigh of relief once Fitch had been finally away from his brother, at a distance Sam had found just about tolerable. But they'd still had to make sure that everything was secured before he could do what he'd been aching to do since he'd set foot in that clinical ritual chamber – free Dean and get him the hell out of there.

He had still not spoken to his big brother. He'd known that to do so would have broken the carefully fortified wall of fury that was carrying him through this harrowing scene. He'd worried that the instant he truly connected with Dean that he wouldn't have been able to keep from crumpling in a shivering, tearful puddle at his brother's feet.

Sam had been aware that Zach - having been hunched fearfully behind him for the entirety of their time in the chamber like a twitching fieldmouse frozen in place by a nearby noise - had finally moved to stand beside him, shotgun also raised threateningly at the black clad murderer. Fitch's surrender appeared to have awakened the dormant bravery his friend had displayed back at Riley's apartment in the face of the demon. Sam had been more than pleased to welcome it back - unaccustomed as he was to having an unprofessional watching his back. Too used to having _Dean_ watching his back, and to not having to even question it.

Again, not daring to take his eyes from Fitch he'd told Zach to destroy the black magic shrine crouched maliciously in a corner behind the devil worshipping scumbag – a menacing carved structure scattered with animal bones and various other ugly, occult objects, including the apparently seminally important icon of Itharacos (a curious figurine that under other circumstances, Sam would have _loved_ to have examined in more detail) - and without a word his friend had marched across the room, shotgun admirably straight as he'd kept it trained on Fitch.

Sam had had to admit that he'd been impressed.

Zach had clearly been horrified by what he'd witnessed in the ritual chamber and he'd strode purposefully towards the gnarled table, features pinched with a darkness Sam had never imagined he'd ever see on the other man's face – and had felt momentarily remorseful that he had been the one to put it there by dragging him into all this.

His old friend had given the table a ferocious kick, splintering the ebony wood and sending the carefully arranged objects placed on top spilling onto the floor, scattering them like dropped marbles. Then he'd grabbed the bronze statuette, had hefted it upwards with seemingly little effort and then hurled it to the floor, smashing the claret coloured stone it contained into tiny shards that littered the ground like flecks of blood.

Fitch had given out a pathetic yelp at this - sounding to Sam like a kicked puppy - clearly distressed that his life's work was being destroyed. Sam couldn't have cared less, in fact, he'd felt a smile tug at his stony lips as he'd watched the centuries-old hippy fall despondently to his knees in mourning.

Sam had been pretty sure that Fitch was beaten, but there was no way he was letting the now wetly sobbing adviser get away with the torture he'd put Dean through - and the no doubt countless others he'd murdered over the centuries. He wanted him restrained, powerless to do anything while Zach burned the dark objects, leaving the younger Winchester free to go to his brother.

Casting his eye around the room - trying desperately to hang on to his self control by forcing his gaze to flit past the blood coated floor and his brother's bound form - he'd spotted a bundle of cable ties on a pristine pine end-table sitting cosily in a corner to his left. Quickly grasping a handful, he'd shoved them stiffly at Zach; acutely aware that the Fitch had probably used these on his big brother, knowledge that had only served to add coal to the powering steam engine of his anger.

He'd stayed strong just long enough to order his friend to tie Fitch up, and to make sure it was done to his satisfaction before two large steps had carried him to his ailing brother's side.

One glance had been all it had taken to survey his brother's condition: pale, clammy, shivering, that hideous thing carved on his chest, blood leaking steadily onto the altar and falling to the ever expanding pool on the floor.

He'd been almost frightened to touch his brother, terrified that he might inadvertently do something to hurt Dean further. With fingers trembling from the heady mix of emotions coursing through him, he'd struggled with the strap covering Dean's mouth, managing to remove it after what seemed an eternity.

He'd watched with horrified concern as his brother had closed his raw eyes in exhaustion and had flexed his jaw with a crack that sent an involuntary shiver tingling horribly down Sam's spine, before finally turning to look at him. At the relief, gratitude, and overwhelming love glazing his brother's eyes like sunlight dappling water, Sam could have sworn he'd felt his ravaged world literally snap back into place with a grinding of gears that seemed to reverberate through his soul - sealing it back together. It was nearly his undoing.

"Nah, it stopped bein' fun after the first coupla hours!" Dean rasped, wincing as Sam began to unbuckle the straps holding his wrists prisoner. His breath came in short, sharp pants as he closed his eyes once more, clearly in agony but - in typical fashion - refusing to vocalise it. The younger Winchester also couldn't help but fret over the way shivers were shaking his brother's frame so hard his teeth were practically rattling.

Sam couldn't stop his sharp intake of breath as he finally saw the condition of his brother's lacerated wrists, the deep grooves cutting into the fragile skin providing more than enough evidence to confirm his suspicions about the cable ties. The wounds had stopped bleeding, but the skin was puffy and raw, the rapidly developing bruising adding a colourful accompaniment to the already unbearably painful picture.

_God, Dean_.

"Are you okay?" Sam asked anxiously, determined that all joking would now be put aside as he quickly freed his brother's torso and ankles – noting the biting wounds on the latter that matched Dean's wrists like a morbid attempt at accessorising.

Realising worriedly that his brother had yet to move from his prone position, Sam couldn't find it in himself to believe a sighing Dean when the expected reply reached his ears. "Yeah, I'm all right"

The elder hunter endured Sam's concerned scrutiny for a brief moment, before apparently having had his fill of his little brother's fussing. He began struggling up from the altar, and when Sam instantly moved to help him he was impatiently waved off.

"I'm not the one who got pulled out of a fire" Dean grumbled as he finally pushed himself up into what might loosely have been called a seated position, but which looked more precarious than the younger man was happy with. The stiff movements and barely hidden winces that accompanied the change in elevation were all blaring warning signs of Dean's misery. Sam could tell that his brother was ashamed and upset at having to betray any weakness, and as usual was trying to hide behind gruff retorts and avoidance tactics.

But the younger Winchester was not so easily fooled, especially not by an act he'd witnessed Dean performing his whole life.

Knowing how violated his brother already felt, Sam tried to keep a reasonable distance, but refused to retreat any further than an arm's length.

"No, but _you_ were the one who _pulled me_ out of the fire, then got knocked out, kidnapped, poisoned and nearly served up to a demon on a platter" Sam couldn't hide his frustration at his brother's inability to put himself first, but Dean didn't rise to the bait - whether he was completely oblivious to his little brother's outrage, or was trying not to give the younger man the opportunity for a lecture, Sam didn't know.

"Yeah, I think I've had about enough of bein' sacrificed for one year. Although I can't fault the gods and demons for their good taste in meat!" Dean's smirk was strained, but the fact that he had managed it at all was something positive that Sam tried to cling to.

This one achievement was vastly outweighed, however, by the younger Winchester's extreme concern over the way his brother was swaying even while seated; arms shaking under the strain of holding himself upright.

Sam watched intently as Dean seemed to shake his head slightly, as if to waken himself up. "What about Nathaniel? Fitch's dickbag Familiar. That sonofabitch said he'd sent him after you"

The younger man flinched internally, he wanted to kill Fitch for the many ways he had tormented his big brother.

"It's taken care of" He replied vaguely, not really wanting to admit to Dean that he'd willingly set a demon free in order to come to his rescue. It was something he knew would not go down well with Dean 'there are no shades of grey when it comes to the supernatural' Winchester – especially when he knew his brother wouldn't agree that it had been worth it.

Sam could still remember the argument he'd had with Dean after Roy LeGrange had 'healed' him. Finding out that someone else had died so that his big brother could live had piqued his guilt, but he couldn't bring himself to regret it.

_But Sam, some guy is dead now cos of me!_

Dean hadn't seen it that way.

"Are you okay? He didn't get you?" Dean's voice cut through his thoughts with the force of a chainsaw, and his obvious care for Sam's wellbeing warmed the younger hunter suddenly, even as the irritation at his brother's one-track mind rose in him like steam from boiling water.

"I'm fine Dean!" He tried to reassure his brother, but the protective expression on Dean's face – even after everything he had been through, after everything Fitch had done to him, after everything _Sam_ had done to him – it was too much.

He suddenly felt a huge bubble of self-flagellating anger expanding within him until it burst spectacularly, overflowing like a fountain.

At the crackling of flames he turned vaguely across the the room to see that Zach had apparently salted and burned the shrine and the ornate icon. His wandering gaze snagged on Fitch's now haggard form as he sat slumped against the wall, looking utterly defeated. Zach it seemed, had also found a roll of duct tape and had used it to gag the older man - presumably in case he got any ideas about spouting any more destructive Latin.

Seeing Fitch's face in that moment was the catalyst Sam needed before the red mist descended in a fog thicker and more disorientating than he had ever experienced before.

Everything that had happened over the past few days: the gut wrenching moment when he'd realised Dean was missing; the soul shattering horror of imagining what might have been happening to him; the paralysing worry that he would be too late to save him; his self-hatred for the way he had behaved towards the most important person to him in the world.

It had all combined to react explosively the second he'd entered that room and had seen his brother bleeding and tied sadistically to that altar, had seen the black magic table, had seen the age-darkened stains of blood mixing with Dean's on the floor. It had boiled and effervesced together with such fervour that Sam found he could overcome it no longer.

He propelled himself violently away from the altar, away from his injured brother, and flew across the room – ignoring Dean's feeble protest, disregarding Zach's yelled objection – until he was standing before Fitch. With barely a pause in his momentum, he grabbed the murderer's robes in one fist, hauling him up upright to slam him harshly against the wall, and began pummelling him with the other. It was kind of refreshing, really. All he could see in front of him was this man's evil face. All he could think about was slamming his fist into it repeatedly until he had pounded it into something resembling raw burger meat.

Every angry, terrified, agonised feeling at what this man has done to innocent people, but most of all his _brother_, flowed into the action of his fist. This poor, snivelling excuse for a man had nearly taken Dean away from him – had abducted him, held him prisoner, poisoned and tortured him. The desire for revenge had taken over all his faculties, had overridden all the manual controls; his fist pumping rhythmically like a piston in a combustion engine.

Some time after he felt Fitch's nose splinter beneath his knuckles, through the muffled, blurry haze in which his mind was now operating, he was vaguely aware of hands grabbing at him, tugging at his rigid arms. Of voices in many different timbres yelling his name. He might have ignored the gaggle of speech around him, had not one voice in particular sliced through them all with unflinching aim.

Dean.

Coming back to himself, as if waking from comatose oblivion, Sam's senses began processing information before he could consciously register what he was seeing. The broken, misshapen face in front of him was almost unrecognisable; with flattened nose, several oozing splits ripping across his cheeks, a cracked front tooth and a rainbow of bruises already decorating every inch of intact skin.

It looked like a horror movie make up artist had gone to town on Fitch's features. With a strange sense of detachment, he looked from the monstrosity in front of him to his swollen and bloody knuckles; as if the two elements could not possibly have been linked in any way.

Realising that his other fist was still clutched in the folds of Fitch's robes, and that he was literally the only thing keeping the other man upright, he unceremoniously dumped the incapacitated serial killer on the ground with a dull thump and turned round to face what was now a room full of people.

The younger Winchester let out a confused huff of air, his mind still not having caught up with his vision as his eyes flitted around the room. He noted dispassionately that all of his friends – except for Rebecca, who clearly hadn't wanted to upset her brother any further – had apparently made the journey. He probably should have been touched, if he could have been bothered to stop and give a damn.

But he ignored them, his eyes seeming to search out the figure of his big brother through the crowd like a homing beacon, as if they knew what he was looking for before his mind made the leap. His big brother, who at that point was up on his feet and swaying dangerously.

He gasped slightly, realising with horror that in his haste to expend the anger that had been eating him up inside like a caterpillar at a rotten leaf, he had forgotten what was most important to him. Dean. He had his brother back, and making sure he was okay did not take back seat to beating the hell out of the bastard who had hurt him, who had nearly friggin' _killed_ him.

How could he have left him like that? The fact that his brother was there in front of him, whole and alive, seemed miraculous when just hours ago he'd been certain that he'd lose him. That he'd be too late to save him.

Sam did not intend to neglect his duties any further. In less than three seconds he was at his brother's side once more, Fitch and the others now removed from his awareness as if they had been wiped from very existence.

He laid a hand on his labouring brother's clammy shoulder to steady him, anxiety flaring when the older man did nothing to dislodge it. "Dean, hey" At his older brother's dazed and vacant expression, Sam leaned into Dean's line of sight and tried once more, knowing he was starting to sound frantic. "Hey! You okay? Answer me, bro!"

The younger Winchester nearly jumped a mile when Dean cleared his throat painfully, and suddenly grabbed the hand Sam had split open when he'd started punching Fitch, lifting it carefully up for closer inspection as if it was the most delicate of glass ornaments.

"Dude, think you need to work on your anger management issues!" Dean's joke might have reassured Sam if it hadn't sounded like it had taken his entire reserve of strength to say it, and if it hadn't been followed immediately by his brother's legs buckling beneath him.

Cursing himself for not having taken immediate care of his brother, Sam leapt forward to catch Dean as he slumped down, his battered body having been running way past empty for too long. "Hey! Dean?" He gasped fearfully as he gripped his brother as gently as he could, arms straining under the older man's not inconsiderable weight. But he held him steady against his chest, not willing to relinquish his burden even when Dean began to balance himself.

"Is he all right?" Someone asked. Sam didn't bother sparing the energy to work out who it had been, he was too busy considering the answer.

_Should've checked that first_, Sam chided himself. Of course Dean wasn't all right, he was bleeding all over the place, and looked like a tap on the shoulder would flatten him. But when Sam could bring himself to examine the ugly wound on Dean's chest, he could see that most of the individual wounds were largely superficial and not life threatening. Not that that in any way reassured him.

And of course there was the unknown damage wrought by the poison he had most likely ingested on numerous occasions. Who knew how much Fitch had forced him to swallow? Not to mention the fact that Dean was almost definitely still concussed after being knocked out by his own gun.

Sam could feel the panic begin to rise once more as he considered the endless injuries his brother might have suffered at Fitch's hands. And then there was the psychological impact of having been kidnapped and held prisoner, and the small matter of nearly having been drained of blood by a hell demon. Not that Sam expected Dean to open up about any of that, it would most likely now be buried deeper than his little brother had the capability of reaching.

"'M fine" came Dean's muffled reply from where his face was pressed firmly against Sam's chest, and he struggled to remove himself from his little brother's hasty embrace. "Personal space Sammy!"

Dean might have sounded more threatening if his voice had carried above a strained murmur, and as it was, Sam simply ignored the expected protest, worry spiking at the ease with which he held his brother restrained.

"We need to get him out of here" He looked up at the throng of faces in front of him, most looking shell-shocked and harrowed. A vacant-looking Luis was holding a tearful Elena, Riley's complexion had turned paler than the white-washed walls, and Kate's eyes kept darting almost hysterically from the wound on Dean's chest, to Fitch's mangled face. It was Jenna who looked most affected though, with a quiet devastation that seemed to shout most loudly, and it was with regret that the young hunter remembered that this was where Jake Moretti had been murdered.

Sam felt guilty for exposing his old friends to such a blatant display of inhumanity and savagery, but it was yet another feeling that had put its name down in the appointment book for later tormented evaluation.

"Hello? Right here!" Dean whined against Sam's shirt, sounding so much like a child that Sam couldn't stop his throat constricting painfully from the surge of breathtaking protectiveness that assailed him in that moment. The need to take care of Dean blocking out all other thought.

The only thing that mattered was his big brother.

His eyes sought Zach's – knowing the unvoiced authority the older man seemed to hold over the others – looking to him to start moving the crowd along like a police officer at an accident scene. His old friend nodded, and began speaking softly to the group.

Sam dismissed the others from his mind once more and began to assist his brother to lean back against the altar while he pulled off his own over-shirt and began balling it up to press onto Dean's still sluggishly oozing chest, noting with distress that the wound was so large that it was nearly impossible to cover.

He tried not to worry about possible scarring, not sure if he could handle seeing that sigil tattooed permanently onto Dean's torso, a constant reminder of how badly he had messed up, of how badly he had treated his big brother and of how badly he had failed to protect him.

Dean shivered slightly in Sam's loose grip, and the younger Winchester realised with another fit of recrimination that he should have thought to find something to get him covered up and warm. His brother had to have been freezing in that icebox of a ritual chamber - not to mention the horrible possibility of shock setting in.

"Dean?" He asked softly, not quite sure if his brother was capable of tracking the words. Reassured by the flicker of awareness in Dean's gaze, he continued. "Do you know what happened to your stuff?"

If they couldn't find his brother's shirt, jacket and boots, then Sam would damn well make sure that one of his friends donated the required items. Hell, Sam himself would go shirtless if it meant providing for his brother.

"Uh..." Dean began slowly, eyes fluttering faintly. "I woke up without my boots and my jacket, but my shirts and amulet should be around here somewhere"

Sam's eyes narrowed at the slight slurring of Dean's words, but he didn't comment, quickly scanning the room and locating his brother's clothing tossed in the farthest corner. Assessing the older man's condition, Sam decided his brother probably wouldn't manage to get the t-shirt on, but the button-down flannel looked as if it would do the trick.

Extremely reluctant to let go of his brother, even to cross to the other side of the room, Sam called across to Riley. Dean was so pliant next to him that he feared his brother would face plant on the floor the instant he wasn't bodily supported.

The second Sam had opened his mouth, he seemed to have drawn the group's undivided attention once more. He cursed inwardly, wanting to shield his brother from the scrutiny of outsiders. Especially knowing how much embarrassment Dean would feel at having an audience to his frailty.

"Shouldn't we get him to a hospital?" Kate sounded shaky, her face devoid, for once, of contempt for the elder Winchester. In place instead was a look of such genuine concern that Sam instantly forgave her for her snobbery of the previous few days. Never mind that all it had taken was the sight of his battered and bleeding brother, and the overt trappings of the torture he had endured.

Even Luis was looking at Dean with something akin to respect, but Sam couldn't quite bring himself to forget how his old friend had acted. Not with his brother looking so friggin' breakable next to him.

"No hospital" came the expected protest from Dean, weaker in delivery but no less stubborn than it usually was.

"Dean" Sam ground out through clenched teeth, turning to give his brother an authoritative stare.

"Sam" Dean replied, the obstinate set to his jaw refusing to budge under Sam's attempt at dictation.

Their stand off was interrupted by the arrival of Riley, who handed Dean's clothes directly to Sam – much to the elder Winchester's irritation. For his part, Sam couldn't help the fond smile that tugged at his lips at his brother's indignation. Dean was just going to have to get used to being looked after.

The first thing Sam did was to hand Dean the amulet he had gifted to him all those years ago, a symbol of the bond of their brotherhood. But before letting the older man anywhere near the button down flannel, he folded up his brother's grey t-shirt to create a more effective bandage, and gently eased his own crumpled clothing from the older Winchester's bloody grasp. He pressed the newer dressing against the wound and secured it to Dean's torso by tying it off with his own – now considerably soiled – shirt.

Sam held up Dean's somewhat cleaner flannel shirt, fully preparing to assist his brother in dressing himself. Receiving one of Dean's patented death glares in response he privately decided that allowing the older man some semblance of independence might work in his favour. He didn't plan on granting him much more, however.

He bit his lip as he watched his brother struggle with the shirt, fingers itching to reach out and help. But eventually Dean managed the last of the buttons, and turned to give Sam a glower that clearly conveyed a sarcastic triumph at his 'achievement' that only his brother could have pulled off so expressively.

Sam's brow creased once more. "Dean-" He tried again to reignite the hospital debate, his worry threshold refusing to drop in the face of his brother's defiance.

"Sam, what do you think is gonna happen if I walk into the hospital with this work of art on my chest, huh?" Dean raised an eyebrow, waving a flippant hand over his torso.

Sam pursed his lips disapprovingly even as he realised that his brother was right. But he didn't have to like it.

He nodded reluctantly.

Sensing an interloper intruding on the sacred space he shared with his brother, Sam looked up to find Luis shuffling hesitantly before him. Looking as if he wanted to start making amends, he offered to search the rest of the chamber and cabin to see if they could find the remainder of Dean's possessions.

Overhearing his friend's suggestion, Riley stepped over to join them – his eyes skittering past Dean and landing on Sam, as if afraid that he might hurt the older man by glance alone. And possibly more than a little worried that he might draw Sam's wrath by even _looking_ at Dean.

"I'll help" He volunteered, giving the younger Winchester a tentative smile. Sam realised that his friends were still treading carefully around him, belatedly recognising that they had all witnessed him ruthlessly beating the tar out of Joseph Fitchpatrick. Yet another facet of his personality he'd never wanted his friends to witness.

"Okay" He agreed, "but be careful what you touch, and make sure you wipe any prints" Sam knew that the Winchester family had left a trail of fingerprints scattered across crime scenes all over the country, and it didn't bother him much to add to that number himself, but he didn't want his friends to find themselves in hot water through trying to help. Not that he thought that the police would really bother checking for further prints when they found their murderer wrapped up in a nice little package for them; but it didn't hurt to be careful.

Both men looked at him sadly, as if only now realising the tightrope he and Dean walked when it came to the law, and departed on their quest.

"Speakin' of the cops..." Dean piped up, "What are we gonna do with Fountain of Youth over there, huh?"

Sam couldn't help but smirk at the reference, and turned to regard the still unconscious form of the bound and gagged devil worshipper, satisfied that he wouldn't be capable of going anywhere if they were to leave – especially since the source of his witchcraft had been destroyed, and his servant had flown the coop.

"Anonymous tip" He muttered. He wasn't particularly happy about it, but since he couldn't sanction cold-blooded murder, and he was desperate to get his brother somewhere that he could take care of him properly, it would have to do. Besides, he had a feeling that...Nathaniel?...the demon might have a vested interest in making sure that Fitch got caught.

Sam smiled grimly at the thought of Fitch's reputation being publicly decimated beyond repair when he was arrested for multiple homicide, but most of all, he looked forward to the moment that Angranos came calling at the end of the year. It couldn't happen to a more deserving person.

Dean nodded his agreement with the plan, and the younger Winchester felt a comforting warmth spread through him at his big brother's trusting approval, at the softly impressed smile he shot him when he thought no one else was looking. Why had he ever thought he needed to be independent from his big brother? Why, when all it took was one proud smile from Dean to make him feel like he could achieve anything?

"What about Nathaniel?" The elder Winchester queried with a grimace as his breath hitched, and he lifted a hand to his chest in such an uncharacteristic display of acknowledged pain that Sam felt all the more determined to get him the hell out of this chamber without delay.

"I told you, I took care of it" Sam answered with continued ambiguity, his gaze hovering on the doorway that Luis and Riley had exited earlier, hoping that they would hurry with their search.

Dean opened his mouth to ask another question, clearly unwilling to let the conversation drop, but Sam cut across him. "We can sort out all the details later, Dean. Let's just get out of here first, huh?"

When it looked like Dean would have argued further, he was cut off again by the return of Luis and Riley, clutching the elder hunter's jacket and boots and looking pleased with themselves – if a little sickened. It didn't take long to figure out why.

"Creepy sonofabitch had a little box of mementos upstairs. We found another small trapdoor under the bed, he had all kinds of stuff in there" Luis announced, swallowing as he glanced at Jenna. "We found Jake's watch...and what I think was _his_ jacket too"

Jenna leaned into Zach's embrace as tears began suddenly to gush from her eyes as suddenly as if someone had turned on a faucet, shoulders shaking in silent sobs.

"Yeah, and there was-" Riley began, but stopped at Zach's wordless shake of the head. With a mortified glance at his grieving friend, the blonde man clamped his mouth shut and grimaced apologetically.

"Thanks" Sam murmured, reaching out to grab his brother's things. Dean was looking warily at him, knowing exactly what he had planned and trying to telepathically tell him in no uncertain terms that it was _not_ happening.

But Sam was not to be budged.

After the elder Winchester had suffered the indignity of having Sam help him with his boots - the younger hunter being careful not to tie the laces too tight in deference to Dean's ankle wounds - he was forced to endure similarly unwanted help with his jacket. Sam knew he'd probably have retribution to fear later for his babying actions, but he knew that Dean would rather brook the treatment than create a more humiliating scene.

When he felt he had Dean suitably ready for travel, he looked up and announced their departure to the group – who had clearly been trying not to watch the brothers too closely, but who looked fascinated nonetheless. "Okay, we're getting out of here"

Grasping Dean around the waist, Sam tried to manhandle his brother from the room, but was predictably shrugged off with the usual level of impatient indignation. "Dude, get off me! I can do it"

Once again Sam marvelled at how childlike his brother sounded, and had to curb the urge to take hold of him anyway. Feeling like a father letting his child ride solo on a bicycle for the first time, Sam held his breath as Dean took a few tottering steps.

To his credit, his big brother made it as far as the doorway before he went down. Zach, who had also been following Dean's movements closely, immediately moved forward to try and help, but Sam was quicker. "I got it, thanks" He almost snapped, grasping his brother around the waist and heaving him gently upwards - this time letting Dean's colourful protests fall on deaf ears.

Getting Dean up the step ladder and out through the trapdoor was a traumatic experience that Sam would have been happy never to repeat again, battling constantly to give his brother the help he so clearly _needed_ but which he steadfastly refused. Then Dean had nearly passed out during their ascent, and Sam had let out a long-suffering sigh and had decided that his indulgence of his big brother's independent streak had come to an end.

It was only when they had all assembled in the cobwebbed living area that Sam realised how far away he had left the Impala, and how long it would take them to get there with Dean in his current state. Leaving his brother back in the cabin was an option he wouldn't even consider, sheepishly admitting to himself that there was no way he was letting Dean out of his sight now that he had got him back.

And in any case, he wanted his brother as far away from Fitch's slimy presence as possible.

Tentatively, he broached the subject with Dean, ending with the only solution he could think of. "So, I was thinking that maybe Zach could..."

His initial bravado wavered at the look of deepest disgust on his brother's face. "Are you kiddin' me? I don't even want to _think_ about how she'll be after _you've_ been drivin' her around for the past twenty four hours, I'm not lettin' anyone else near her" He glanced at Zach, who had been trying and failing to master the art of eavesdropping without giving the game away.

"I mean, I'm grateful to the guy...but not _that_ grateful. No offence" he winked at Zach, who blushed at the realisation that Dean had been aware of his attention.

"We're walkin'"

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><p><em>Thanks for reading! I had to stop it there or it would have ended up being ridiculously long!<em>_ Let me know if you enjoyed... :)_


	16. Nothing Else Matters

Hi everyone!

I had this written more quickly than I'd anticipated, so thought I would share it with you now. Slightly longer this time, as requested! ;)

I'm thinking there will perhaps be just one or two more chapters after this, we'll see how it goes!

Thanks so much to all who took the time to review and to favourite/alert - you've all helped me to chase away the post-holiday blues and get on with writing!

Hope you enjoy! :)

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><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 16 – Nothing Else Matters**

"We're walkin'"

Dean Winchester thought he had sounded firm. Authoritative, even. But one dubious frown from his little brother told him in no uncertain terms that Sam had not missed the shaky unsteadiness that had him practically staggering on the spot, or the pathetic weakness that seemed to have turned his limbs to lead.

Yeah. He was feeling seriously lousy. And there would be no pulling the wool over his brother's eyes this time – like he had ever _really_ managed that anyway.

The elder Winchester stood reluctantly in Sam's gentle - but unyielding - grasp, frustratingly unable to make any kind of serious attempt to escape the hold. He felt something like one of those posable wooden models he'd seen used in art classes in school, humiliatingly incapacitated as Sam arranged him into position – a situation made all the more unbearable by the fact that it was being witnessed by all of his little brother's college friends. Not to mention the fact that they'd _all_ seen him down there in the chamber.

But that thought was going straight to the 'Danger: Do Not Enter Under Any Circumstances' section of his brain, along with any and all things pertaining to Fitch and the whole sacrificial experience. Do not pass go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.

He pressed his hand more tightly against the field dressing Sam had hastily applied to his new etching as a searing pain shot around the carved symbol like an electrical current, feeling fresh blood trickle hotly outwards at the action.

"We're walkin' Sam, and I _don't_ need a Sasquatch-sized crutch either" Dean continued, unaccustomed to the feelings of disorientating vulnerability he'd been grappling with since he'd realised that he had managed to become the star attraction of the Winchester freak show. The elder hunter had an extreme loathing for being the centre of attention, unless of course it suited him for hustling purposes...or unless it was of the female persuasion. Of course, the latter scenarios both involved putting on an act that Dean was very adept at.

This time it was all him. No artifice, no deception.

Bad enough that Sammy had to witness the quivering blob of goo that Fitch had turned him into, without the friggin' Dream Team seeing behind his mask; seeing him stripped bare of all the protection that kept him from _really_ acknowledging how screwed up he was, that kept _other people_ from _seeing _how screwed up he was.

On the whole, Dean had been pretending that they didn't exist, but sooner or later he was going to reach his limit. He just hoped his little brother's psychic capabilities could pick up Dean Winchester death rays before they reached full power.

The memory of Sam dressing him up like a toddler was also branded indelibly onto the backs of his eyelids, taunting him every time they dared to close. No hope of getting rid of that one, even though he knew that Sammy had been doing it because he cared – and not merely to embarrass him - and had plainly been riding the shaky comedown from the fear he had to have been strung out on over the past twenty four hours. And as much as the knowledge warmed him from within, it also reinforced the sheer _wrongness_ of his little brother taking care of him.

It was definitely time to reassert some independence in this situation.

"Oh you don't, huh?" Sam had taken on the extremely patronising tone of a parent just itching to give a lecture, an exasperating characteristic that Dean found he had been picking up on more and more since the electrocution had reminded his little brother that big brothers were not, in fact, invincible. Sam appeared to need a lesson in who was supposed to be the protective one – especially since he was at that moment waving his friends away, indicating that they should go on ahead.

Relief wrestled vigorously with indignation as everyone except for Zach – who continued to linger on the sidelines – glanced surreptitiously back at the Winchesters before moving forward as one, clutched together like some kind of Roman battle formation.

"No, so quit feelin' me up. You're practically _wearin' _me, dude; which is wrong on _so_ many levels!" If he'd been able to deliver it without a wince, the hissed jibe might have sounded more convincing.

Sam showed just how much he believed Dean's blustering by instantly loosening his grip, letting out an exasperated huff when the older man lurched drunkenly the instant the support was removed. Dean was allowed to tilt by about two inches before Sam grabbed him once more. "When you can stand upright without falling on your face, then we'll talk" The condescension was back again, but this time overlaid by a thick layer of concern and topped off with a long-suffering sigh that managed all the same to convey a cosy blanket of fondness.

Okay. So maybe Sam had a point. A minor issue really, but Dean had to concede that walking _did_ require some ability to maintain standing balance. "All right, _all right_" He grouched through a throat that felt like broken glass, jagged and brittle, and let his little brother take his weight as they moved lopsidedly out into the surrounding woodland.

Zach began following closely behind them, stumbling slightly on the uneven, gravelly ground that encompassed Fitch's cabin. "He always this stubborn?" he queried, and Dean was certain he could actually hear the slight smirk that shaped the words like a cookie-cutter.

"Well I've only known him since I was born..." came Sam's retort, with an amusement that – to his surprise – made the elder hunter feel more at ease. If his brother was starting to calm slightly, then that meant Sammy was beginning to get closer to being back to his normal geeky self.

Dean didn't even want to _think_ about the expression of blind rage that had ruined the younger man's features as he'd attacked Fitch. On some level he'd known his brother's anger had been close to its tipping point for a long while, but to see it explode like that...it had been more than a little frightening.

He'd been unrecognisable. Face frozen in an icy, swift, robotic fury.

"_Shudup_" the elder Winchester whined exaggeratedly in a drawling mumble, glad for the opportunity of banter to cover up the awkwardness of being practically carried by his kid brother.

The sickle moon he caught sight of before they entered the cave-like wood was struggling valiantly to illuminate a sky so cavernously dark Dean almost felt he might dizzily fall upwards into it, the small chink of light seeming to beckon to him like the gnarled finger of a fairytale witch. It promised danger and oblivion if he gave in, a poisoned apple that would make him sleep for eternity.

But Sam was the lifeline tethering Dean to reality, holding onto his big brother as if he feared the older man would simply float away the second he let go.

Dean kept a hand jammed tightly against his middle as Sam manoeuvred them around lethal rocks and treacherous tree roots with a focus that seemed so at odds with his normally loping gait. Clearly his little brother was taking more care than usual, but after a while even this wasn't enough to prevent Dean's near-zombified state from sending them both toppling over a knobbly wooden protuberance – Sam banging his shin as he strained to take the brunt of the impact, bone knocking so loudly against wood that the elder Winchester almost felt the pain himself.

"Y'all right?" Dean slurred, mouth refusing to work as quickly as his brain would have liked as Sam hefted him back upright with a soft groan.

"I'm _fine_ Dean. You okay?" Sam's eyes peered worriedly down at him from underneath sloping eyebrows, and from the exhaustion dripping liberally from each syllable, Dean could tell that his brother's energy was beginning to sputter out. Adrenaline only went so far.

"Yeeeeaaaaah" He continued to slur in the kind of sing-song voice he only ever used when he had drunk himself to the point of utter senselessness. The level of inebriation he felt might have tricked him into thinking that his little brother was simply assisting him home after a blinder of a night out, if not for the now constantly throbbing pain in his middle. The wounds seemed to have stopped bleeding, but every movement sent a chain reaction of agonies chasing across the carvings like a stone skimming across water.

"Sam, I can help you" Zach positioned himself on Dean's other side, apparently waiting for Sam's permission before daring to lay a finger on his big brother. The elder hunter bristled at the implication that his brother's friends all thought that _he_ was the boss.

"No...I got it" Sam's voice trudged slowly outwards on a long exhale of breath. Dean cast a blurry eye over the younger man's appearance. He very much doubted that Sam had slept since his kidnapping, not to mention the fact that his little brother was recovering from smoke inhalation and a concussion. It looked like he was going to have to suck up his own pain, his own pride, once more. Sam needed help, and if Dean had to accept it for his brother, then he would.

"Sammy let 'im help" Dean gasped suddenly as the muscles in his chest contracted painfully, triggering narrowed eyes and an anxiously bitten lip in his ridiculously over-attentive brother. Sam opened his mouth – in all likelihood to ask Dean for yet another status report – but he was cut off by Zach, who had moved forward at the elder Winchester's covert nod and grasped Dean's free arm.

"Look, you're both a mess" Zach declared bluntly, "And the quicker you get back to the Impala, the quicker you can get Dean some help"

The elder hunter couldn't suppress the feeling of gratitude that rose when Sam tiredly gave in. Having to be physically aided by Zach Warren was an embarrassment he'd have done almost anything to avoid – except compromise Sam's wellbeing.

As completely wretched as he himself felt, Dean was – and always would be – his brother's keeper. And Sam looked as if he was leaning on Dean just as much as he was keeping his big brother upright. If he could get Sam talking, then maybe he could keep the kid's mind focussed.

"So...how'd you find me?" Dean finally voiced the question that had been tapping its foot impatiently on his tongue ever since he'd heard his brother's voice ring boldly out through the chamber. The elder Winchester didn't even know where they _were_, let alone how Sam had managed to come across it. "And where is _here_ anyway?"

Sam's head seemed to snap up at the questions, and he shot Dean a look that was a very fine approximation of a deer being caught in headlights. The elder hunter frowned suspiciously.

Sam cleared his throat painfully. "Uh...well, we're somewhere in Purisima Creek. It's about a forty minute drive from Palo Alto"

When Sam looked as if he didn't plan on expanding his answer any further, Dean raised his eyebrows in an expression that clearly conveyed his dissatisfaction with Sam's level of information provision. "And?"

Sam's lip twitch was a complete giveaway, but otherwise his face morphed into the picture of innocent confusion - a remarkably superficial arrangement of features that Dean had been poking holes in all his life. "And what?"

"How'd you find the cabin?" Dean persisted, teeth now latched onto the flesh of his question with no intention of letting go until he had his answers.

Dean watched, brow folded, as Sam appeared to exchange a significant glance with Zach before setting his jaw and turning to meet his brother's gaze. "It was...uh...it was Nathaniel" The younger man forced out with a thick swallow that seemed to bulge in his throat like liquid in a cartoon straw.

"Nathaniel? That sonofabitch? What the hell did he do? I thought you said you took care of 'im" Dean could feel his chilled skin begin to glow red hot, sending patches of deep colour to his cheeks at the thought of the demon that had tortured him at Fitch's behest.

"He told me where you were" Sam answered quietly, but emphatically, though his eyes now danced annoyingly out of Dean's reach.

The elder hunter coughed slightly as another wave of pain temporarily obliterated his senses. Ignoring the way both Sam and Zach seemed to tighten their hold on him, Dean turned to quirk a dangerous brow at his little brother. "Come again?"

Sam took a deep breath, resolve seeming to stiffen within him, and pursed his lips in a classic example of the facial expression that Dean had always – even when very young – associated with Sammy having bad news to impart. It had made frequent appearances during Sam's potty training phase – and Dean remembered _that_ vividly – and indeed any time that the young Sammy had done something that he knew his big brother wouldn't like.

It had been like that in those days. Sam would confess to Dean, and the elder Winchester would cover it up so that their father never found out. Hell, sometimes it was like that _now_.

The older man sighed, readying himself, casting his eyes downwards; ostensibly to watch where he was placing his feet, but in reality to avoid looking at the discomfort on his little brother's face.

"Nathaniel was bound to Fitch. He promised to tell me where you were if I broke the binding spell"

Dean's head whipped up so fast he nearly fainted at the whirling sensation that followed. "What?" His response might have sounded more menacing if it hadn't come out in a high squeak.

Sam opened his mouth to halt Dean's objection, but the elder hunter recovered quickly. "You set a _demon_ free? Do I need to remind you about what they _are_? About what they _do_? Murder, torture, terrorism, the whole nine? Didn't Dad-"

The younger Winchester halted abruptly, sending both Dean and Zach pitching forwards suddenly at the shift in momentum. "Yeah, Dean, I set him free! And you know what? I'd do the same thing every friggin' time! Dammit Dean, you were _missing_, and I knew that sonofabitch had you, and I knew what he was gonna _do _to you. And I couldn't..." Sam's voice petered out weakly as he began furiously blinking at a speed Dean knew from years of experience meant imminent tears if he didn't do something to stem the flow.

The elder Winchester stared at his little brother as if seeing him clearly for the first time; Sam who had just admitted that setting a demon free to wreak god only knew what havoc on the world paled in comparison to the thought of losing his big brother. It seemed to hit him then, more than it had even back in the ritual chamber, just how important he was to the kid.

What Sam was apparently willing to do for him...But how could he argue? How could he criticise, when he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he'd have done exactly the same thing?

When it came down to it, he'd choose Sam every time.

He raised his gaze from where it had been intently contemplating a congealed clump of moss that was clinging to the trunk of a knotted tree, to meet Sam's anxious features. He realised abruptly, that Sam was actually waiting for his approval; that Sam actually _cared_ about his big brother's absolution.

He granted it without thinking. "Okay, Sammy. It's okay"

At the elated expression that softened the contours of Sam's face, Dean had to wonder if his mouth had chosen to say something different without telling him first. Like: Sammy, guess what, we just won the lottery! He rewound his words. Nope, he'd definitely said what he'd thought he'd said. He just hadn't thought he still had the ability to make Sam look at him in wonder like that.

To look at him like...well, like he was still his hero big brother.

Seeing Sam open his mouth once more - and somewhat frightened that the kid was going to delve even deeper into the chick-flick moment that was already bordering on the embarrassing – Dean hastily cut across him. "C'mon Sammy, let's keep movin', huh? We stand here much longer and those trees aren't gonna be the only things growin' moss!"

Suddenly Zach started chuckling and Dean glanced up to see his little brother's now comically irritated features. He sent his brother's friend an amused smirk. Too easy.

The remainder of the trek passed by in a pain-filled haze as Dean concentrated on not crying out at every step. The adrenaline that had been triggered by the small matter of having nearly died had well and truly dissipated, leaving him with the full, no holds barred reality of what he had suffered.

Sam and Zach had tried to maintain some sort of conversation that Dean had made a token effort to follow, but when he had registered the fact that they had lapsed into a discussion of current campus politics, the elder Winchester zoned out and let them get on with it. After a while even _they_ had given up, and their journey had been largely characterised by the snapping of twigs and the crunching of leaves.

Just when Dean began to fear that he was going to have to swallow his pride and admit to Sam that he didn't think he could take another step, he saw her.

She stood, with a strong and quiet grace, glowing even though no light seeped down through the canopy of trees above; waiting faithfully for him like a trusty mare primed to convey him from the battlefield.

He couldn't help the smile that seemed to spread from his lips down to his toes, ignoring his brother's teasing snigger at his reaction. He was truly home now. He had all he needed.

"Hey girl" He murmured reverently as they drew near the Impala's sleek form. "Well at least she's still in one piece" He shot Sam a mock glare. "'Course, I won't be able to tell until I get behind the wheel"

"_Shut up_ Dean!" Sam huffed, knowing exactly what game they were playing and seemingly happy to run with it. "It's not my fault your first love was a _car_. You don't have to get all 'jealous boyfriend' on me. Nothing happened. I _swear_!"

The younger Winchester ignored Dean's withering scowl and moved forward to open the rear door with a flourish, sending his big brother a significant look.

"Your manners are impeccable Sammy, but we're not goin' on a date here. I'm sure _Zach_ is capable of opening a door by himself" Dean snarked, refusing to accept his brother's implication that _he_ would be the one riding in the back. He attempted to break Zach's hold as he reached for the front passenger door, nearly overbalancing in the process.

"You're going in the back Dean" Sam's tone was as unyielding as it had been after the electrocution, when he'd neatly cut across his big brother's protest about seeing the 'specialist' in Nebraska. All he'd had to say was: _We're going_. And they had.

Despite his wishes, the elder hunter had a sinking feeling that this situation was heading in much the same direction. Dean Winchester was a man who completely believed that he was capable of arguing with a stone until it drew blood, and he knew that when he was at the top of his game he could easily out-stubborn his kid brother. But as he looked from Sam's stony face to Zach's more hesitant but no less determined expression, he realised he just didn't have the strength to object with any real vigour.

But he made sure that the two of them knew exactly how unhappy he was with the arrangement as they settled him along the back seat, replete with several blankets and a hastily cobbled together pillow made out of Sam's jacket. He complained petulantly until he achieved the expression of helpless exasperation on Sam's face that he'd been aiming for. The one that made his little brother look as if it took every ounce of strength not to slap him.

They'd be okay now.

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><p>Sam bit his lip until he drew blood. The younger hunter knew Dean <em>thought<em> he'd made a good job of his disapproval, but in reality the childish griping had been little more than a half-hearted attempt to cover up the misery that was all too obvious to an anxious little brother's beady eye. Sam had played along, not wanting to burden his big brother with the extent of his own concern.

Frankly, Dean had given in far too easily. And that, coupled with his almost catatonic state during the latter part of their journey to the Impala – interspersed with soft groans that Dean probably hadn't even been aware of – had made it even more difficult to rein in his panic. He needed to get Dean somewhere he could take care of him, and fast.

Sam clambered into the driving seat, turning around to check on Dean as he did so; eyes automatically straying to where his brother's rust-stained hand rested across his torso. Dean looked ridiculously small under the blankets, a fact Sam found extremely difficult to reconcile with his brother's normally larger than life presence. This ordeal had taken something unquantifiable from his big brother, but Sam found himself wondering who had plundered deepest: himself or Fitch?

His eyes lingered still on the spot where he knew the incomplete sigil had been carved onto his brother's skin. He knew the wounds weren't life-threatening, but the pain they'd caused Dean had been more than even his normally unflinchingly stoic big brother could handle. And who knew how long he'd been bleeding?

Dean was already fading out even as Sam started the Impala's engine, settling down onto the seat as the car rumbled reassuringly beneath them. The younger Winchester glanced behind him once more to see the slight shiver jerking Dean's frame, despite the stifling heater now being on at the highest setting and being wrapped snugly in blankets. The sight brought Sam's other major worry to the fore.

He had no idea what the withdrawal might be like from the poison Dean had been dosed with. There was nothing he could prepare, no way of really knowing what to expect. He was more than a little afraid that Dean would simply drift off and never wake up.

Dean shuffled around on the seat restlessly as Sam began to manoeuvre the Impala, so he turned on the cassette player and shoved in a Metallica tape without even having to think about it. Music had always calmed his brother down, and he knew Dean often hummed to himself when he thought Sam wasn't paying attention.

When _Nothing Else Matters_ started to float gently from the speakers, Sam felt the car's interior descend into a contemplative hush; as if everyone was lost in the uncanny appropriateness of the song's message. He wanted Dean to feel it, wanted him to know that it was true.

Frequent glances in the rear-view mirror showed Sam that his brother was staring fixedly at the roof, holding his gaze steady as if he was trying to ride out a wave of pain. That, and the fact that Dean hadn't complained once about how the Impala was bouncing along the rutted track made the younger Winchester very uneasy indeed.

"You all right, man?" He asked tentatively, wrenching the wheel suddenly to avoid a large pot hole.

The grumpily replied "Awesome" did nothing to allay his fears.

He knew he should have taken some solace in his brother's ability to remain sarcastic – usually a sign that Dean had some energy left to bolster his defences (not that Sam felt this was a good use of his meagre resources) – but the younger Winchester was still fighting the carry-over from twenty four hours of barely restrained panic. It had left a mark that would take a while to fade.

He knew he wouldn't be able to relax a single muscle until he had Dean safely away from Fitch and anything to do with him.

"Don't fall asleep okay?" He asked anxiously, unable to suppress a fond smile at the unintelligible grumble he received in response.

There was a brief moment of silence as the Impala crunched to the end of the dirt road, Sam wondering internally how far in front his friends were. He hadn't seen them since he'd told them to go on ahead.

Next to him, Zach suddenly heaved a huge sigh; reminding the young hunter that his old friend was still in the car with them. He'd been so focussed on Dean that he'd forgotten Zach had remained behind to help. The melancholy exhalation seemed like an invitation, an unvoiced cry for help.

"You okay?" It hadn't escaped Sam's notice that Zach hadn't said a word about what he'd witnessed back in the ritual chamber.

It seemed to take an age for him to reply, and Sam watched the interplay of emotions scudding across his features like wind-driven clouds.

"It's just...I guess I thought I understood the life you were leading. I've wondered about you a lot since you left Palo Alto...I was so confused about why you didn't stick around in St. Louis to see me even though I understood you guys had to leave because of Dean. Becca told me what you and Dean did, but I really had _no idea_. I had this picture of you like the Ghostbusters or something"

Zach paused as Dean gave a soft, amused snort in response.

"But what I saw back there...man, I just...you were like a different person. Like this...warrior. Someone I could never have imagined. It'll just take a little time to get used to, that's all"

Sam swallowed, feeling remorse building a lump in his throat once more. He kept his eyes glued to the road in front of him as he tried to digest his old friend's words.

"I'm sorry" He murmured, breathing out loudly through his nose. "I'm sorry you had to see that. I'll understand if you don't want anything to do with us, we can just get a motel room-"

"Don't be stupid, Sam!" Zach interrupted incredulously. "You were _incredible_! The way you handled everything, how you kept your cool...I was _seriously_ impressed, man. Okay, maybe not with you beating the crap out of Fitch, but hey, I'd have wanted to do the same thing to that shapeshifter if I'd ever had the chance"

Sam wrinkled his brow, glad his friend didn't seem to think he was some kind of raging lunatic, but not liking the praise. Being reminded of how well he fitted into the hunting life wasn't something he wanted to hear. It was never what he'd have chosen for himself, and he'd tried so hard to distance himself from it as much as he possibly could. He'd wanted out so badly he'd even cut off his own _family_...

"It's what I was trained to do" he answered somewhat bitterly, before belatedly realising that Dean could hear every word that came out of his mouth. Wincing, he kicked himself internally. He'd just rescued his wounded big brother from being a demon's main course, he shouldn't have been talking like this in front of him.

"That training saved my life, Sam" Dean piped up weakly from the back seat, his voice barely carrying over the combined cacophony of music and engine, but his conviction was rock hard nonetheless. "It's saved _yours_ more times than I can count"

Sam said nothing for a long moment, furious that he'd managed to upset his brother once more, and furious at having to acknowledge that Dean was friggin' right! How could he question his family's training when he had just found and saved his brother using it?

"I know" he finally answered. But he didn't have to like it.

"Sam, you should be proud" Zach declared, turning solemnly towards his friend as if he was about to award him a medal. "Think about how many lives you saved tonight. Not just Dean's, but everyone Fitch would have gone on killing for generations. I never really saw your life like that, but after what I saw you deal with, and what you did...it was amazing. I mean, I have some anonymous corporate non-job, and you guys are out there actually saving _lives_"

"You gonna be comin' on the road with us then, Zach?" Dean quipped sleepily from where he had snuggled down into his blanket.

"Hell no! That, right there, was terrifying!"

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><p>The drive back to Palo Alto took considerably longer than it had when Sam had been rushing to Dean's rescue. But the elder Winchester was unaware of that as he continued to attempt to heed his brother's request not to fall asleep. The journey seemed interminably long as his eyelids rose and fell ever more drowsily, sleep tugging at him with almost irresistible force.<p>

Orange streaks from the lights outside flashed by in the blurriness of peripheral vision, tails lingering in smudges across his retinas like comet tails in the ether. The rumble of the Impala's engine beneath him felt like a lullaby to the beleaguered man as sleep teased at the edges of his consciousness, tingling along his body with anaesthetic numbness. It was so hard to stay awake that he almost cried out in primal frustration. But Sammy was counting on him. Sammy had begged him not to go to sleep.

He couldn't keep being the source of his brother's pain.

Despite his struggle, by the time they had arrived in the vicinity of Zach and Rebecca's apartment - Dean trying not to think about what had happened the last time he'd been there - the effects of the toxins departing his system had more than adequately wakened him up. A sadistic goodbye gift from that devil-worshipping bastard.

The tremors had been gaining in intensity since he'd left Fitch's cabin – most of which he felt he'd adequately managed to keep from Sammy's watchful gaze. But there was no hiding the way they now racked his body uncontrollably, his limbs jerking and twisting wildly as he gritted his teeth against the ache in his seizing muscles.

Sam had started to become more than a little frantic, and seemed to think that repeated thirty second intervals were a perfectly reasonable length of time to wait before asking Dean if he was okay.

Telling his fussing brother that he was "fine" and that "it would pass" made little impact. It must have been the way his voice cracked that had given him away, that or the fact that his teeth had chattered dementedly around the words – chopping them sloppily like a drunken chef.

"You should be in a hospital" Sam muttered under his breath as they approached the apartment building. Dean stayed silent, knowing that nothing he said would make a difference anyway. Sam was way past believing that he was _fine_, and his little brother knew that a hospital was out of the question.

Only managing to find a parking space a block from the apartment did nothing to improve the younger man's mood. Dean, however, knew just how lucky they'd been. He'd half expected the first available opening to have appeared somewhere in the vicinity of San Francisco. But expressing such a sentiment to his..._upset_ brother would probably not have improved matters.

Dean had long felt that the bleeding from his wounds had stopped, but he was left with an itchy, burning midriff that made even the idea of sitting upright give him the urge to retch. He'd hoped that he'd be able to get out of the car without assistance, and indeed had tried to do just that; pushing himself upwards before Sam had even turned off the engine. But his arms had folded traitorously beneath him, dropping him back on the seat more effectively than a right hook to the jaw. He hit the padded surface with an excruciating thump – which Sam had thankfully missed, since he'd chosen that precise moment to lever himself out of the car.

Zach had seen it though, and had apparently wasted no time in snitching on him to his little brother.

Oh, yeah. Sam was definitely pissed at him.

"Don't even _think_ about it!" His brother commanded threateningly when Dean had the gall to even raise so much as a finger. So he had to wait until both men were positioned on either side of the Impala, gently easing his shuddering body out of the car in a manner that Dean found deeply humiliating.

Knowing there was no way he'd make it up to Zach and Rebecca's apartment under his own steam, he – admittedly with bad grace – submitted to the offered assistance. Ha! Offered? More like _coerced_.

He could almost hear his little brother's response echoing in his ears with a resonance so strong he wondered if they were actually having the conversation out loud. _Semantics Dean, semantics_.

But blustering and complaining was one of his very favourite tactics when he felt his control slip; the primary logic being that if he pretended to hate every minute of the help, then they wouldn't see how relieved he was that he hadn't actually had to attempt the trek himself.

Because he knew he wouldn't have gotten far. Even the walk from the Impala to the door of the building had practically finished him off.

Negotiating the entrance foyer had been like something out of America's Funniest Home Videos. Except no one was laughing. The marble looked as if it had been meticulously polished since Dean had seen it last – just a day ago, he marvelled - and the three men slipped and slid across the surface like a limping spider trying to climb the side of a bathtub.

"Oh for the love of-" Zach nearly lost his footing for the third time, threatening to take the others down with him, interdependently connected as they were. "When this is all over, we are _definitely _doing something about this friggin' floor!"

Dean found himself laughing heartily at the other man's ruffled indignation, despite the pain that nearly bent him double as it flared across his torso at the motion. He had a sudden mental picture of Zach standing up self-righteously at a resident's association meeting, ranting about the state of the floor. "What'd I tell ya...'bout the floor Sammy" He mumbled with a slight frown. He couldn't _quite_ remember _what_ he'd said, but it was bound to have been dazzlingly witty. Jeez, he was losing it.

Sam's lips were clamped down so tightly they had almost disappeared. Not amused then.

Dean eyed the stairs with deep-seated dread, thinking that taking steps on flat ground had been bad enough and hoping Sam wouldn't decide to take this moment to prove to his big brother that he wasn't the kind of pansy who would take an elevator to the second floor. To his relief, the younger man turned them instead towards the bank of waiting elevators, sending Dean a look that just _dared_ him to make a smart-ass comment.

But Dean was, at that moment, trying too hard not to pass out under the room's harsh lighting. He ignored the flash of worry that his silence ignited in Sam, but knew all the same that he had failed some kind of test for a curriculum he had no conception of. Who knew what went on in the geekboy's mind anyway?

Rebecca met them at the door to the apartment, opening the door just as they reached it with a prescience Dean couldn't be bothered to find an explanation for. Her fine features dissolved into distress at the sight of the three bedraggled men that practically collapsed at her feet. Dean noted vaguely that she had a small butterfly bandaid placed crookedly atop an eyebrow, and made a mental note to ask Sam about it later. If he even _remembered_ said cerebral observation later.

Her eyes skated over Sam and Zach, lingering on her brother as she gave him a look that was equal parts relief and chastisement. _Siblings_. Dean thought dimly as he realised he had seen the exact same expression on Sam's face more times than he could count.

But when the heat of her gaze landed on Dean...

"Oh my god" Her mouth floundered for a few moments as she flailed for some sort of appropriate response.

"Well, I'm used to leavin' women speechless, but..." Dean managed an old wisecrack from his well indexed humour lexicon to hide his discomfort at the overt scrutiny, shrugging slightly when no one responded, not even with distaste at the poor quality of his joke.

Rebecca blinked exaggeratedly, seeming to waken from her horrified trance. "The guys said it was bad, but...We need to get him in bed right away" she trotted out with the naïveté of someone who didn't know Dean Winchester's propensity to latch onto a double entendre with the enthusiasm of a dog chasing a stick.

"Well, if you're offerin' sweetheart..." Even though the only things keeping him upright were Sam and Zach's buttressing arms, Dean nevertheless managed to leer suggestively at the young woman; the confidence of performing a familiar routine neatly overlaying his feeling of disconcerting awkwardness. He could only imagine the picture he presented. He hadn't been anywhere near a mirror, although Sam's worry-o-meter was as good a proxy as he was likely to get. Right now it was sitting somewhere between 'death warmed over' and 'roadkill'.

The joke must have been just bad enough to break the spell this time, to Dean's relief.

"Hey, that's my little sister you're talking about, man!" Zach countered in mock outrage, beginning to shift his charge forward with insistent pressure.

"Well, look at that, he's back to normal already!" Sam probably thought he'd let out something approximating a chuckle, but Dean was an expert at reading the nuances of his little brother's mannerisms. The garbled squeak had definitely been more in the region of a sob. If Sam didn't get the chance to mother-hen him to death soon, there were going to be fireworks of epic proportions.

They moved him to one of the spare rooms, the casual luxury of the king-size bed almost making Dean groan with longing. The space had a calming, magnolia-walled, dispassionately decorated feel to it; with a strange fuzzy quality that made the elder Winchester feel as if he was dreaming. It was a large room. Too large. A fact that seemed somehow to reinforce Dean's own perception of his own huddled vulnerability.

Suddenly he just wanted to find a hole and burrow down into it.

They were just easing him down onto the bed – mattress so soft he thought he might sink right through it and into some kind of alternate universe – when another overpowering coughing fit hit him so hard he nearly jerked right out of their hold.

"Water!" Rebecca exclaimed as the hacks finally began to subside, putting both hands to her head in mortification. "I'll get him some water!"

"_Dammit!_ Water, I should've..." Sam was looking crushed as he watched Rebecca hurry from the room.

Dean dragged in an arid breath, the air rustling past his throat like wind through dying long grass, wincing as he heard the self-recrimination in his brother's murmured response.

"Sam..." he began, but could get no further before Rebecca blew back into the room, hair whipping breezily around her face in her haste.

"Here" Dean accepted the glass as gratefully as he could when all he wanted was for her to leave, and to take Zach with her. He drank as slowly as his rabid thirst would allow, fighting the urge to squirm under the intensity of Sam's supervision. His mouth had been opening to admonish his brother for the ludicrous level of fussing he had been exhibiting when Sam moved from his side before he had the chance.

Dean watched as his brother took position at the foot of the bed, legs apart and arms folded in bodyguard stance. His meaning was all too clear.

"Right, well...If you need anything..." Zach stumbled slightly with his words, and all of a sudden Dean was very glad he couldn't see his brother's face. What he didn't know couldn't hurt him, right?

"Yeah, we'll let you know" Dean raised his eyebrows at the dismissive undercurrent in Sam's voice. His little brother had to have been at the end of his patience if he was speaking to his friends like that. He wasn't quite sure what to make of the change.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn't notice that Sam was back at his side until he felt the mattress shift under the kid's gigantor weight. He chanced a peek at his brother from under heavy eyelids, pupils immediately jerking away from Sam's as he glimpsed something far deeper and more intense in their depths than he wanted to deal with in that moment.

He'd more than reached his chick-flick moment quotient for the day, or maybe even for his whole friggin' life.

"I'm _fine_. Quit worryin'" He assured the chest of drawers in the corner. And actually, the water had definitely helped. Maybe this was all a big misunderstanding and his problem had simply been nothing more than dehydration.

Maybe.

"Dean..." The elder Winchester could see Sam shaking his head out of the corner of his eye. "What about the poison? What if it's still affecting you?"

Dean closed his eyes as another tremor animated his body, shaking his limbs as if they weren't his own. "It's been a few hours since the last time. Besides, you remember what Kevorkian said a few days ago, right? The concentration's not high enough to do any permanent damage. It'll pass, and I'll be okay"

Sam merely sighed in response, clearly giving the argument as much credence as he would a declaration from Dean that he was going to be running for President.

"Well, you should have something for the pain" the younger Winchester continued to talk in that 'someone just died' voice that always made Dean feel like an invalid, before stopping abruptly. "Wait, what if you can't take anything? The poison..."

"Then we'll just have to wait until it's outta my system" Dean suggested, not particularly looking forward to being stitched up without anything to dull the unpleasantness, but he knew Sammy would find the process a lot harder. Especially if he thought he was hurting his big brother further. "Besides, it's always more fun without. I got an image to maintain here!"

"Yeah, tough guy, wouldn't want anyone to know that you actually _feel_ anything, huh?" A smirk was tugging at Sam's lips despite his obvious desire to prevent it.

Dean merely rolled his eyes in response, struggling to remain still as his little brother began checking him over. This 'being taken care of' deal was _not_ something he wanted to get used to. The aftermath of the electrocution had been bad enough, but Sammy had a whole day's worth of fretting to work through. This was going to be a long one.

"So what's the diagnosis doc? 'M I gonna live?"

At the answering pinched disapproval, Dean realised that Sammy was still more than a little sensitive about what had happened. Jokes about death were clearly out of the question then. Great. Another tool lost from his mental arsenal.

"Most of the wounds won't need stitches, so I don't think they'll scar" Sam admitted, not appearing to take any pleasure from the reassurance "But a few of them are deeper" He looked apologetically at his big brother for what was to come, the soft lighting in the room making his eyes sink into smudged shadows.

Dean inclined his head towards the first aid kit that Sam must have retrieved from the Impala's trunk before they'd journeyed indoors. "Well then hop to it, Florence"

Instead of lightening Sam's features, as he'd hoped, the reference seemed instead to settle a greater darkness in them. Dean winced internally. Even when he was trying to be make things easier for the kid, he couldn't seem to get it right.

Silence fell between them as Sam began his work, cleaning the wounds as gently as he could while Dean gritted his teeth against the white hot agony, then beginning to suture the slices; fingers admirably steady even though Dean knew the kid was shaking internally. The lull that grew between the brothers while Sam worked was not one of awkwardness, nor of nervousness. But neither was it comfortable.

Part of that was because Dean knew that the second he opened his mouth he wouldn't have been able to stop himself from showing Sam how much pain he was really in, and part of it was because there still seemed so much that was unresolved between them. And he just didn't know where to start, or even whether it was possible to try.

He might not have been in any doubt now about his place in his brother's life, but there were still issues between the two of them that were bound to flare up again sooner or later.

Nevertheless, the misery that seemed to have made his body its home was intent on preventing him from focussing on anything beyond its own presence, and he didn't think he was capable of handling the emotion-fest that he knew Sammy was probably _dying_ to start up.

But neither, he realised, was he capable of dealing with the silence any more.

"So, Fitch huh?" Dean broke through the quietude, unable to stop a wince from escaping his moulded façade as Sam tugged a stitch through sensitive skin. "Tell me I'm not the only one who didn't see _that_ comin'"

Sam murmured an apology for what he must have perceived as roughness with his care, his head bowed as he concentrated on his ministrations. But Dean suspected the lowered gaze had more to do with avoiding his big brother than a perceived need to see his work more clearly.

"That _sonofabitch_!" Sam spat with a vitriol the elder Winchester was unaccustomed to hearing, and his eyes played a game of tag with Dean's as the older man tried to connect with him. "When we found out it was him, I couldn't believe it. I had _no_ idea man...I should've-"

"Sam, you might have some kinda psychic mojo goin' on, but you're not a mind reader" _Thank god!_ Dean laid a hand on Sam's, halting its action, forcing the kid to raise his head. He needed Sam to hear this. To _really_ hear this. "It's not your fault"

Sam swallowed audibly as their eyes collided, but said nothing.

"I'll tell you one thing though, dude. Your gaydar could use some work!"

Sam paled. "I don't think that's funny, Dean"

"C'mon, it was a _little_ funny"

Sam snorted, but whether in agreement or out of frustration Dean found he couldn't tell. But knowing Sammy, frustration was the most likely candidate.

"I don't get it though, how'd he know to pick you? With all the others he was their Academic Adviser, apparently he was everyone's best friend. He met you _one time_" Clearly this was something that had been playing on his brother's mind. He could tell that Sam was whipping himself for having missed the signs, and looked as if he was searching for some sort of way to explain what had slipped past his grasp.

_Join the friggin' club!_

"What can I say Sammy? I make an impression on people!" Dean's knee-jerk reaction was to joke, before assembling the strength to answer honestly. "Said he 'sensed' my courage or somethin', I dunno. Guy's a few fries short of a Happy Meal, Sam"

"Why'd he pick you instead of me?" Sam asked, before immediately looking pained at the way the words had come out. Dean was sure Sam hadn't wanted to make it sound like he thought his brother wasn't brave. Nevertheless, he couldn't resist making light of the slip.

"You feelin' left out or somethin' Sammy?" He quipped, _so_ not going anywhere near the real reason that Fitch had given him. He hadn't even had time to contemplate that one himself, let _alone_ share it with his vulnerable brother. Sam was far too worried about the psychic experiences he was having without Dean spouting Fitch's nonsense about 'tainted blood'. "Maybe he 'sensed' that you were a wuss!"

"_Shut up_, you know what I mean!" Sam waved a hand impatiently at his brother's continued deflection.

Dean cleared his throat carefully, the lie coming easily to his lips. The desire to_ protect his brother_ coming even more easily to his conscience. "I dunno Sam. He didn't say anything about you"

Sam nodded slowly, evidently having decided to let the issue go for now. He fastidiously tied off the last of the stitches and began the process of bandaging the wounds.

"How the hell did he get his hands on you anyway?"

Dean squirmed slightly, cheeks reddening with embarrassment at how he'd been taken so easily. "That demon sonofabitch lured me into the alleyway, grabbed me and then suckered me with my own gun, happy?"

"Yeah, Dean. I'm ecstatic" Sam deadpanned in response, but his eyes were now so dark they were nearly black; giving him an almost demonic aura that was deeply disturbing - but completely unlike Sam, and completely ridiculous. _Never gonna happen_, Dean told himself.

The elder hunter wondered if Sam was thinking about how he'd set Nathaniel free; wondered if he was now regretting the action.

"Tell me you found my gun, right?" Dean demanded, suddenly remembering that he had no idea where his beloved weapon was.

"Yeah Dean, we got your gun...and your cell" Sam paused, building towards something. "Dean, why'd you go into that alleyway?"

* * *

><p>Sam watched the shifting emotions undulating across his brother's features, frowned as they seemed to grind together like tectonic plates. The process seemed to take an age, the two men motionless as reality seemed to shrink to the size of the distance between their eyes. The younger man was desperate to know the catalyst for this horrendous ordeal, needed for some self-punishing reason to <em>know<em> that it had all been his fault.

"I heard a noise. After you nearly died in that fire I wasn't takin' any chances" Dean explained unapologetically, conviction hardening the planes of his features, his gaze steady and unwavering.

As if it was the most matter of fact reason in the world. As if Sam shouldn't even have questioned it. As if he shouldn't feel the jagged mace of blame bouncing around in the pit of his stomach. As if he wasn't the friggin' cause of it _all_.

After all, Dean had only ended up dangling himself like bait on a hook because he thought he was trying to protect his little brother.

Impressed at the steadiness in his hands, he finished up with the bandages across Dean's middle and reached for the roll of gauze he had set aside for his brother's ruined wrists and ankles.

At Dean's continued muteness, the younger Winchester looked up to gauge whether pain was the cause, and was shocked instead to see him looking strickenly into a far corner, bottom lip quivering slightly.

"What is it?" Sam demanded, suddenly worried that he was hurting his brother with his treatment, or that some new horror had come to the fore.

Dean maintained his staring contest with the wall, not even flickering at Sam's entreaty. Something like shame twisted his features, but the action was so quick and the change so minute that Sam thought he might have imagined it. His brother's poker face could be almost unreadable, even to the person who knew him better than anyone else.

At Dean's continued lack of response, Sam tried to stall his brother's typical avoidance tactics. The younger Winchester had lost count of the number of times Dean had put on the strong, silent act; and once it started, Sam normally had as much hope of getting an answer out of him as he did the lamp sitting on the nightstand.

"Talk to me man. What's wrong?" Sam paused in wrapping a limp wrist, waiting patiently for any sign that his brother would open up to him. Of course, he wouldn't blame Dean for clamming up on him now, after the way he had acted before. After all the harsh words he'd tossed out and was worried he wouldn't be able to take back.

He was genuinely surprised when he heard his brother's reluctant admission. "The fire was a test"

"What?" Wondering where this was going, and why it was upsetting Dean so much, Sam shifted on the edge of the bed, trying to entice Dean's attention away from where it was now resting on the ugly china figurine of a pirouetting ballerina placed atop the chest of drawers. But it was not to be budged.

"That sick bastard told me he had to be sure the blood of the virtuous was pure, so he gave each one a test. The fire was mine" The words were delivered in flat, monotone expression. Like they didn't mean anything, like Dean was reading out the next day's weather forecast. And Sam might have felt his own sense of culpability overwhelm him into thinking that there was nothing there, nothing his brother was hiding. But the thread of his brother's guilt and shame ran through the words with a poignancy that – albeit temporarily – allowed Sam to forget his own irrational guilt at having been part of the test to prove Dean's courage.

He had his answer about the fire now, but the satisfaction of a puzzle piece fitting into place was nothing compared to the way he found himself aching for his brother.

"Nathaniel was there that night, watchin' to make sure I went in to get you out. I recognised him" Dean let out a mirthless snort, a self-derisive gesture that Sam hadn't noticed in him before. "He was gonna grab me then, but I went to the hospital with you, so he took that kid instead"

It was then that Sam recognised the dual facets to his brother's diamond-hard regret; the discrete and manifold layers of contrition and self-hatred that swathed the older man. And even as he saw it, the disbelief rose in him sharply. Not only was his big brother blaming _himself_ for the fact that Sam had been put in danger, but he was _also_ taking the responsibility for Michael Edelman's murder squarely upon his already over-burdened shoulders.

"Dean-" Sam began, not even knowing where to begin the task of dismantling his brother's many misconceptions about his own accountability.

But, as it turned out, Dean didn't give him the chance.

"So how'd you find out it was Fitch?" His brother asked with a swiftness that was just too forced to be accepted as a natural change of subject.

He could have challenged it, there and then. But Dean clearly wasn't ready to listen.

His big brother seemed to be hard-wired to take failure as a personal judgement of his own worth and capability. Their father had been a hard taskmaster during their formative years, never one to coddle or to settle for a performance that was second-best. While Sam had developed a quiet confidence in himself that he knew was mostly down to his brother's devotion in raising him, Dean hadn't had anyone to tell him how amazing he really was. John Winchester had rarely delivered praise, and if he had, it was usually generic and unfeeling.

His criticisms however, had always held a casual disappointment that Dean had always folded up in a little pouch and held close to his chest like a precious keepsake.

Sam felt fresh anger thicken in his blood once more as he thought of all the things that his father had taken away from them – from _Dean – _through his vendetta with the supernatural. And while Sam knew that ultimately John Winchester's training had saved the lives of not only themselves, but of many other innocents out there, he couldn't help but regret that his brother had never known any other life.

Dean had made that possible for _him_, had tried so hard to give him that for as long as he possibly could. Sam wondered if he'd ever truly realise the extent of the things his brother had done for him. A debt he didn't think he could ever really repay, or that Dean would ever really accept.

So he left it alone, and began recounting everything that had happened since he'd realised Dean had been taken – conveniently skirting around both the preceding argument, and his own breakdown. He didn't think either of them were ready for that.

He continued to tend to his brother's many injuries as he did so, systematically cleaning and wrapping the deep grooves that screamed of Dean's mistreatment, carrying out a similar procedure for the head wound, and checking him over for less obvious damage that his brother might have been trying to hide.

By the time he was satisfied with his work, Dean's tremors had thankfully vanished completely, leaving him now looking merely gaunt and sickly on the enormous bed. He was sure his brother had to be feeling miserable. Even with as high a pain threshold as Dean had, the older man was definitely struggling. Not that he had voiced one iota of discomfort.

But his easy acceptance of the painkillers that Sam now felt comfortable in offering was a telling sign.

When Dean had fully lain back against his pillow after downing the pills with a fresh glass of water, Sam moved to the other side of the vast mattress and settled back against the cushioned leather headrest, regarding his brother stealthily out of the corner of his eye. He wondered if Dean was listless enough to submit to some gentle questioning.

The thought of what his brother might have endured in Fitch's captivity was something that buzzed constantly at the back of his mind, like an itchy scab he was desperate to scratch yet frightened of what might result from giving in to the urge. This was probably his one chance of finding out before Dean's barriers slammed back into place with no light allowed escape from within.

"So what happened after they grabbed you?" He prodded tentatively.

"You should get some rest Sam. How much sleep have you had since you got outta hospital?" Okay, so Dean clearly wasn't as out of it as he'd thought. The avoidance this time had been about as subtle as a lightning storm.

And dammit, Dean had somehow managed to friggin' turn the focus onto _Sam!_

The younger man maintained a steady silence, knowing that if he attempted any kind of subterfuge then Dean would call him on it instantly. He was irritating like that.

And how was it exactly, that his big brother seemed to be able to sound so authoritatively protective even as he lay covered in bruises and bandages? Maybe because it was so ingrained in him that he didn't know how to turn it off, and probably didn't want to. Sam himself – though he felt he'd only truly discovered the depth of the instinct since he'd begun hunting with Dean again – was finding it incredibly difficult to control.

"Yeah well, sleep wasn't exactly high on my list of priorities"

There was a heavy pause as the air between them suddenly shifted tangibly, creating a sudden wall between them that Sam felt he could almost have reached out and touched; that he wanted to blast away with a shotgun shell.

Reassessing his earlier decision not to bring up their fight, and realising that his reticence had probably had more to do with his own reluctance to actually examine his own actions than his belief that Dean wasn't ready to talk about it, he felt suddenly that they needed to resolve it.

There and then.

He picked at his fingernails nervously as he pondered how to broach the subject. "Dean, about last night..."

"Sam, I'm really not in the mood for the deep and meaningfuls right now" The response hadn't been unexpected - this was _Dean_ after all - but this time Sam was the one who wasn't letting go.

"Dammit Dean!" Sam burst out, barely pausing at his brother's surprised flinch. "You just _vanished_ into thin air. I had no idea what happened to you, if you were even still _alive_! And then the police found that kid, and you were still missing..."

"Sam-" Dean tried to interject, voice sounding stronger now as he instinctively sought to quell Sam's distress.

"You nearly died - _again_!" The fear almost overwhelmed him anew, even though Dean was right there in front of him. Not in one piece; not by a long shot. But there. Alive.

"But I _didn't_. I'm okay Sam, you got me out" The quiet pride emblazoned in his big brother's solemn murmur nearly unravelled him once more.

"Yeah, well, I was nearly too late. Dean, I don't know if we would've found you if it wasn't for that demon. When we worked out it was Fitch, we searched his house, but there was nothing. We knew he had to have some other place, but it could've been anywhere..." Sam ran out of tarmac on the highway of his explanation, affected once more by a powerful echo of the paralysing grief he'd felt as he'd stood in Fitch's empty hallway.

"I get it Sam. I gave you a hard time earlier about Nathaniel, but I'd have done the same"

Sam nodded blankly, accepting Dean's offered apology though he felt none was necessary. His own need to set things right was burrowing a distracting hole in his focus. "Look, I know you don't want to hear this right now, but just let me say it. I've been a real jerk to you about everything that happened with Dad, and I'm sorry for that. And for what happened last night"

"Aw man, where'd you say my gun was?" Dean countered with a half-hearted groan, clearly uncomfortable with Sam's candour.

Battling exasperation at his brother's continued reluctance to accept his apology, Sam persevered nonetheless. "Shut up and just _listen_. I get why you told him to leave. I know you were doing it to protect him. I gotta be honest, I don't agree with you, but I understand"

"Well hurray, let's have a parade"

Sam couldn't help but roll his eyes, letting out a tired huff of laughter at his brother's obstinacy – which was, no doubt, Dean's intention. The older man's expression was carefully blank, but the eyes he'd never been able to mask from his little brother were brimming with an understanding and acceptance that Sam knew were wholly undeserved, and which made the younger Winchester determined to repeat the sentiments until they _were_.

"I guess we'll just have to agree to disagree on that one" Dean finally acknowledged, the words punctuated somewhere in the middle by an enormous black hole of a yawn as the painkillers clearly started to work their magic.

"Yeah" Sam concurred with an indulgent smile at his brother's dozy appearance, "Okay seriously, you need to go to sleep Dean, get some rest. We'll talk more later"

"Can't wait" Came the _delighted_ response.

Sam just snorted affectionately, a tide of elation energising him as he rose from the bed. Dean was there. He was safe. He'd be okay. Nothing else mattered.

He was making his way to the bedroom door when Dean called out softly.

"Sam?"

He turned back to his fading brother. "Yeah?"

"Thanks"

"Don't mention it"

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! I'd love to hear your thoughts! :)<em>


	17. Little Victories

Hi everyone!

Thanks so much to all those who totally made my day with their lovely comments, and to those who added this fic to their favourites/alerts!

At the moment this is looking like the penultimate chapter, but I'll make no promises!

Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 17 – Little Victories**

Sam Winchester closed the bedroom door softly behind him, the sound of his brother's light, almost purring snores warming him, awakening once more an unaccustomed sensation of parental responsibility. No. _Responsibility_ wasn't the word.

But how did one put into words the mixture of love, care, fear, concern, protectiveness and steadfastness that reacted together to create that unbelievably gratifying yet utterly terrifying task of being the sole carer of someone else?

Actually, now Sam thought of it, there was _one _term that neatly encapsulated it all.

Dean.

Was this how his brother had felt over all these years? Was this what the four year old Dean had been faced with when John Winchester had all but thrown baby Sammy at him on that fateful night?

Sam marvelled at the ability of his unquestionably _too young_ brother to grow way beyond his years in that night, to accept the training wheels of parenthood when he probably hadn't even reached the stage of tying his own shoelaces. But then, Dean always had been a quick study.

He wondered if it had ever occurred to his big brother to just say no. To just refuse the undeniably _unfair_ burden of not only raising Sam, but of having to be housewife, therapist and hunting back-up rolled into one for a hopelessly spiralling John Winchester. Dean had blindly handed his childhood over to his little brother in that moment, without having any conception of what he had been giving up. How could he have known? He had only been friggin' four!

Sam knew it was irrational to feel guilty about his role in mapping out the path his brother had been set on in life; especially since he knew with a certainty that rang true to his core that there was no way that Dean would have done anything other than shoulder the task with the proud conscientiousness he reserved only for his family.

The younger Winchester felt suddenly vertiginous in taking up his brother's well worn mantle, the events of the previous twenty four hours having dragged from him a strength that was not purely physical.

Sam had seen his brother relentlessly keep their family buttressed when the walls of their lives were crumbling apocalyptically around them, even when Dean himself had taken more than he could stand. His brother's first thought would always be for his family, and he would defend, support, protect, _love_ and fight for them as long as there was one cell his body that retained metabolic function.

Sam had one hell of a role model to live up to, and the thought left him with an overwhelming sense of stage fright. Never mind that he'd already given the performance of his life. The task he had now was so much more subtle and nuanced, and he was just so _tired_. And ravaged.

He leant back against the bedroom door, feeling the smoothness of the lacquered surface soothe him like a balm against skin pockmarked indelibly with the horror of having had to stitch his brother back together using more than just a suturing needle; of having had to cleanse wounds that didn't merely rest upon the surface of Dean's epidermis.

But he had to be strong enough to do for Dean what his big brother had never once failed to do for _him_. Dean had always been there, offering strength even when his own was dwindling. It was Sam's moment to return the favour.

Looking after each other went both ways now. He had never felt so strongly about anything else in his life.

Taking a deep, steadying breath he pushed forward from the door, hand lingering reluctantly against the sleek wood – as if ending even that slim connection to Dean would result in his brother mysteriously vanishing from the room before his return. The thought almost made him turn back anyway, just to peek through the doorway and check that Dean was still there, still safe.

Reels of unbearable cinematic footage that Sam would have loved to permanently consign to oblivion began playing before his eyes, through his ears, under his fingertips: Dean swaying like a wispy leaf as he stood up from the Warrens' dining room chair; the tinny rattle of his brother's cell phone vibrating in distress against the alley floor; fingers sliding sickeningly over his brother's blood on the butt of the Colt; Dean bound to a sacrificial altar, blood streaming from tortured wounds.

Dean screaming.

Sam clenched the hand still resting on the door into a tight fist, noting dispassionately that the wounds he'd earned from pounding his fury into Dean's torturer burned dully at the motion. He should probably have iced and wrapped them, and knew that if Dean had been in anything other than mind-numbing, bone-crushing agony that he'd have made sure Sam had done just that. He'd probably have insisted on Sam taking care of it before even laying so much as a finger on his big brother.

But the younger Winchester had tried to keep them out of sight while he'd been patching his brother up - hoping that Dean's patchy awareness would aid in the deception - feeling somehow that they represented a badge of his most important victory. A medal of honour.

He'd wear them proudly.

Finally amassing the strength to step outwith his brother's immediate orbit, Sam felt an almost physical pang in removing his hand from the door. The younger Winchester found he was already mentally calculating how long he could realistically refrain from returning to check on Dean. He wouldn't have been leaving him alone at all if not for a deeply ingrained, yet highly irritating sense of duty towards the friends who had dropped everything to help him save his brother.

He plodded heavily along the corridor to the living room, feeling as if he was wading through water at waist height. The thought of standing before his old friends instilled in him a sense of dread that collected in the pit of his stomach, the threat of harsh judgement akin to what Sam imagined facing a firing squad must feel like. Though he knew Zach and Rebecca hadn't rejected him, he couldn't help imagining a sea of jeering, hostile faces greeting him as he entered the living room.

He paused in the hallway, the door in front slightly ajar. Murmuring voices from within were unintelligible, no hint of their import to the young hunter unsure of his reception. The depth of the thrum indicated that all were present, and Sam realised that they must have been there long before the injured party had arrived since he hadn't heard anyone else entering the apartment.

The chatter ceased as soon as Sam took a tiny step into the room as all eyes wheeled to face the interloper, giving him the curious sensation of feeling like an old time outlaw stepping ominously into a raucous saloon filled with boisterous revellers. He could almost hear the jaunty music and clinking glasses clattering to a halt.

He shook his head slightly. Clearly Dean had been force-feeding him too many Western movies. It would have to stop.

Sam's unease must have shown on his face, for Zach immediately leapt to his feet from where he had been sitting next to Rebecca on the couch opposite the door. "What's happened? Is he all right?"

Sam blinked slightly at the aggressiveness that billowed from both tone and stance, the older man striding forward until he was almost in infringement of personal space. The sense of protectiveness that resulted was unequivocal. Huh. His brother would _love_ that.

About as much as Sam did.

Hackles raised at this new development that he really hadn't seen coming, he shifted infinitesimally back towards the door, blocking it with the expanse of his frame, a ridiculous sensation of territoriality striking his mind and holding it prisoner.

"He's fine" He answered shortly. His brother was _his_ business and nobody else's; no matter how uncharitable that might have sounded when these people surely had a right to know whether their help had been successful. "Sleeping it off" He added, relenting as it occurred to him that he ought to be more generous to his brother's rescuers.

The whole situation seemed to have shifted boundaries, drawing and re-drawing sandy lines in a way that Sam would never have predicted when he'd answered Jenna's call just a few days ago. His relationship with Dean seemed to have undergone a painful metamorphosis, but Sam now believed something even better had emerged and would continue to strengthen until it became unbreakable.

The quarantine he had always automatically imposed upon his two 'lives' seemed also to have altered beyond recognition.

In the past, Sam had always viewed his conflicting desires in absolute terms. He could have Stanford, or he could hunt. He could keep his friends, or he could keep his brother. It had never occurred to him that he could have both, one day.

The younger Winchester had certainly never considered that Dean might end up carving out a place for himself in his little brother's Stanford life, and somehow, that was exactly what he'd done. Sam remembered his misgivings about bringing his brother to Palo Alto, and his unfair resentment at the possibility of Dean muscling in on the life he had tried to keep separate for so long. How incredibly short-sighted he'd been.

He didn't know how he could ever have conceived of a life that didn't include his brother.

Zach nodded carefully at the hunter's response, sighing submissively as the bravado seemed to deflate from his body, finally allowing Sam a proper view of the room beyond.

The fullness of the space felt comfortable, warming where Sam had expected frigidity. His friends were draped across couch and floor, limbs intermingled cosily in a reflection of easy solidarity that Sam would almost certainly have missed had he not been in possession of something far more precious.

Riley sat on the floor, arms and legs akimbo as he reclined against Rebecca's knees, head lolling back as she lazily stroked blond strands from his forehead. The abuse both had suffered was stark across their features, yet there was a sense of peace in their togetherness.

Opposite, Kate was snuggled into a corner of the dark leather sofa, lean legs resting across Elena's lap. Her cheeks had the saggy appearance of one who had been battling to evade sleep's clutches for some time, and Sam knew the feeling. As if the hunter's internal acknowledgement of this fact had been a cue, her face cracked into a cavernous yawn, and she raised a hand to cover her mouth as Elena gave her a reassuring pat on the leg.

The young hunter's eyes darkened slightly as they landed on Luis, who was sitting cross legged on the floor in front of Kate and Elena, arm settled comfortingly around a still ghostly-looking Jenna. Despite the man's attempt to redeem himself back at Fitch's cabin, Sam couldn't suppress the seismic rumbles that quaked within at the sight of him. The younger Winchester couldn't forget the fact that the jerk had been ordering pizza while Dean was being tortured, that he'd done nothing but chip away at his brother's character since they'd arrived back in Palo Alto. Did he really want to let that go?

What would Dean have done? Sam deliberated, mentally wringing his hands. For himself, his big brother would probably have let the criticisms and derision bounce off him like a wadded up ball of paper. But for Sam...yeah, Dean would have gone completely Terminator on the ass of whoever dared to attack his kid brother.

He should have taken care of Luis when he'd had the chance.

It took a few seconds for Sam to register the fact that the conversation had not restarted since his entrance, the room's attention still firmly upon him. He glanced at Zach, who hadn't yet returned to his seat and who was giving him the sort of dubiously concerned look that suggested he thought Sam was about to crumple to a heap at his feet.

"Are _you_ all right, Sam?" The older man queried, brows arching to form a V shape above his eyes.

Sam raised a hand to his face, but let it drop again before it had even travelled half way to its destination. He let out what he intended to be a dismissive laugh, but dammit if his brain didn't have other ideas yet again. The half-sob that he was finding ever more difficult to suppress had leaked out once more, begging him to stop pretending; begging for him to sit down and let his body explain to him how bad he was actually feeling.

But he really didn't want to go there. Knew he wouldn't be able to find his way back out of his labyrinthine thoughts if he started to explore too far into their depths.

"I'm fine...now. Just tired" That answer was genuine enough at least. His exhaustion tugged at him, pulling him downwards with such force he began to wonder if gravity had a personal bone to pick with him. But he wouldn't - _couldn't -_ allow himself to close his eyes until he was sure that his brother was really, truly going to be okay. If Sam checked out for a few hours and woke to find Dean in trouble...

"You should sit down, Sam" Zach offered, drawing Sam's attention once more as he gestured towards his recently vacated space on the couch.

"Uh, no, I'm okay" Sam answered dully with a small jerk of his head. He hadn't been planning on staying long.

"Sit down before you _fall_ down" Zach insisted, boldness returning as he grasped Sam's arm and physically manoeuvred him down onto the soft leather. The action reminded him so much of Dean that allowing Zach to be the perpetrator seemed like a betrayal. That thought alone would have been enough to propel Sam out of the chair and back down the hallway to Dean if Jenna hadn't suddenly materialised before him, puffy eyes and chalk-white complexion reinforcing her almost apparitional aura. The room's lighting gave her a flickering, insubstantial appearance that only supported the unfortunate image.

"Jenna...are you okay?" He wasn't quite sure where he found the patience to ask, the desire to return to his brother beginning to slowly override his manual controls.

Her response was to launch herself at him, arms encircling his neck with choking intensity. He patted her back awkwardly given the angle at which she had him pinned against the chair, the movements becoming more urgently insistent as her enthusiasm began cutting off his air supply.

"Sorry...sorry" She murmured, pulling back to stare up at him with glistening eyes. "It's just...I don't know how to thank you for finding Jake's killer. You _and_ Dean. I was wondering...do you think maybe I could go talk to him?"

Sam stiffened, imagining an over-emotional Jenna swooping down on his unsuspecting brother. "No!" He blurted, regretting it immediately when her face crumpled. "No" he softened his voice. "He's sleeping right now. Maybe when he's better"

Auburn head bowed, she started twisting her hands wretchedly. "It's just...I really need to know what happened"

"Has he told you anything?" Riley glanced up at him curiously.

Everyone was watching him with rapt attention, their eyes alight with a kind of morbid fascination that made Sam tense up even further. His brother's pain was _not_ for public consumption.

"No" He said shortly, intending to draw a line under the subject, to lock it away and blow the key to smithereens.

But Jenna was looking disappointed, shoulders slumping at Sam's refusal to go into detail. "I just...I need to know what Jake went through, you know? It's driving me crazy just thinking about it"

Sam frowned down at her, privately resolving that he would be personally supervising Jenna's contact with his brother, and opened his mouth to deliver what would most likely have been a completely over the top reaction. He was saved from potentially ending a friendship by Zach's timely intervention.

"Jenna, I don't think knowing that is going to help. And if you were Dean, would _you_ want to talk about it?" The rebuke was gentle, and Sam was thankful for it. He felt as if he was only capable of extreme reactions, that his ability to temper his behaviour had been eroded to all but the switch between sobbing and raging.

"I guess not" She whispered, face starting to redden as tears threatened once more. Sam wanted to move to comfort her, but all he had to give he was giving to Dean. He didn't have anything he was prepared to donate to a cause that wasn't his brother's.

"Hey, c'mere" Luis appeared at her side, giving Sam a curious stare as he put his hand around the petite girl and drew her gently back towards the opposite side of the room. The implicit censure in the action added boiling magma to Sam's stirring emotions. But he willed them back under his control. Losing himself with Fitch had done nothing to help his brother, and he wasn't about to forget where his focus needed to stay.

"What about that-that _demon_, or whatever the hell it was? What if it comes back?" Elena demanded with admirable calm, but was unable to prevent Sam from hearing the telltale wobble in her voice.

Sam himself had been chewing the issue over, and had come to the bitter conclusion that there wasn't going to be a neat, satisfactory end to the situation. "I don't think he'll come back" He assured her, and realised he meant it. "He's got his freedom now. He's not going to risk that by coming back for us"

"Are you going to go after _him_?" Zach piped up curiously.

"I wouldn't know where to start" Sam shrugged. "Sonofabitch could be anywhere by now" He let the subject lie there, not planning to stop and examine what he might have released into the world. There was no way he regretted the action that had delivered him to his brother, but neither did he want to dwell upon the people Nathaniel might ultimately end up destroying because Sam had set him free. It didn't sit well with him, and it _definitely_ wouldn't sit well with Dean. But he'd come to learn that they'd win and they'd lose in this fight.

And as far as Sam was concerned, this was definitely a win.

"So, did Dean tell you anything about Fitch?" Rebecca asked tentatively, hand coming to rest on Riley's forehead, stalling in her ministrations.

Sam heaved a sigh that very quickly morphed into a yawn of its own accord. That small action marked the first time his body had given him such an overt sign of his fatigue since the ordeal had begun, but he continued to ignore it as he pondered how much to reveal. Not that Dean had submitted a comprehensive report himself.

"He said the fire was a test" He wondered why he was even touting this small titbit. His friends wouldn't be able to offer him the forgiveness he sought for being the unwitting bait used to condemn his brother to death. But then Dean wouldn't either. Wouldn't because he'd never agree that such absolution was even necessary.

There wasn't even any point in trying to explain to Dean the extent of his own double standards when it came to his little brother. Sam could have protested until his voice gave out and it wouldn't have made a difference.

The balance in how he viewed his big brother was constantly in motion, but at that moment it had come to rest somewhere in the gulf between pride and fury. His admiration for his brother and the warmth he felt at the fact that Dean would always look out for him was being challenged by his utter exasperation that his brother had taken it upon himself to confront a potential threat single-handedly. If Dean took as much care over his own safety as he did Sam's, then this whole disaster might never have happened.

Double friggin' standards.

"What do you mean?" Kate piped up, voice sounding strained from lack of use.

Sam's sighs were becoming more frequent, body beginning a steady campaign to wear him down to the point of collapse. "For the ritual to work, all..." He stumbled slightly, "_victims_ had to pass a test to show that their virtue was pure. Dean had to save me from the fire to prove his courage"

A ponderous silence echoed around the room as Sam stared shamefully at the hands sitting clasped on his lap.

"Yeah, see that's the thing I just don't get" Luis cocked his head, the question sounding just too innocent to contain anything other than deliberate portent. Sam felt his defences slide immediately into place as Luis somehow managed to stare the young hunter down even though he was looking up at him from his seated position on the floor. "What's so special about _Dean_?"

"What?" Sam blinked, tiredness meddling with the words so that they arrived to his ears in a distorted jumble. He thought Luis had just said...

"I mean, how the hell is _Dean_ braver than you anyway? Didn't he storm out of here in some kind of hissy fit after you wouldn't_ leave_ with him?" Luis sneered, and Sam was hit suddenly with the image of every bully he had ever encountered in childhood, everyone who had tried to make each school day a gauntlet of taunts, humiliation and unpleasantness. He watched as a myriad of faces transposed through time to merge disturbingly with the one in front of him. It was a face redolent of self-righteous hubris, of malicious intent.

The young Sammy had found these people difficult to deal with, but he'd had Dean to step up for him in those days. Nowadays, the grown up Sam could handle these people just fine. Especially when they went after his big brother.

The younger Winchester blinked once more and the exhaustion was gone, replaced by a strange buzzing in his ears. His hands began gripping the seat beneath him, clawing at the smooth leather as hate-filled tension hardened his limbs. He stared in naked disbelief at this man who was supposed to be his friend; this man who _dared_ to sit there and glibly insult his big brother after everything he'd been through.

And frankly, who seemed to have some kind of _death wish_.

Well Sam would happily oblige him.

"I never told you about that" Sam's voice was a lethal murmur, sending the temperature in the room plummeting. He pushed suddenly to his feet, drawing himself to his fullest height and striding across the room to tower menacingly over the man he'd once called friend.

Luis rose slowly, eyes never leaving Sam's as he twisted in the meagre, confined space left to him by the irate hunter and backed into the centre of the room. The younger Winchester couldn't help but wonder at the difference in the other man's reaction. Just hours ago he'd had the jerk cowering in a corner. And Sam wouldn't have described himself as arrogant, but he didn't _think_ he looked any less dangerous.

Far from it.

Sam glowered at Rebecca. He couldn't help it. She'd been the only one – aside from Zach, who wouldn't have breathed a word – who'd known about the fight he'd had with Dean. The fair haired girl shrank under his judgemental scowl, gaping at him in helpless apology.

Sam shook his head in incredulity, throwing his arms out to form a wingspan that seemed to encompass the whole room. "You got something to say about my brother Luis, let's hear it!"

The young hunter knew he dwarfed the room, knew that his height and span and presence filled the space until it felt like there was no room to breathe. Luis knew it too, if the quiver that danced across his top lip was anything to go by. But he stood his ground, looking at Sam with a disgustingly sympathetic air.

"Yeah, actually I _do_. What the hell _happened_ to you Sam? You used to be your own person, and you didn't take crap from anyone! You barely even talked about your family when you were at school here, and when you _did_, you never had anything positive to say about them. Then your brother waltzes back into your life after all these years, and all of a sudden he's the centre of your freakin' universe? He cast some sort of spell over you or something? I'm just trying to do you a favour. Remind you about what _used_ to be important to you"

The events that followed seemed to jerk unsteadily from moment to moment, grinding forwards like a frame-by-frame replay. In the thundering, oppressive stillness that followed Luis' outburst, Sam felt something snap within him so distinctly that he would later swear he had heard its crack reverberate through the room. It was a reaction he would reconcile at some future point with the fact that Luis had unequivocally triggered his internal Dean-threat alert at a time when his level of preparedness had been off the scale.

A second later and Luis was on the ground, lip popped and oozing like a squashed tomato. He spluttered dazedly as the room inhaled sharply, looking confounded at his sudden change in elevation as he raised a hand to the cut. When it came back bloody he held it in front of his face in fascination, as if hypnotised by the sight of glittering crimson clinging to exploratory fingers.

Sam contemplated the scene with distaste, but couldn't with any real desire bring himself to regret his actions. A threat to Dean had been identified, and said danger had been neutralised.

That, and he had just friggin' well enjoyed it.

The downed man had apparently made the age old association between blood and peril, and began scrabbling agitatedly for purchase on the ground before the falling shadow from Sam's towering form spooked him into immobility.

"Sam-" Zach began nervously, reaching to lay a cautionary hand on the young hunter's arm that was immediately shrugged off.

"Stay out of this Zach" Sam barely spared him a flicker, zooming in on the bleeding Luis and holding him prisoner in his steely gaze. "He's had this coming for a long time"

He took a slow step towards the man he didn't think he'd ever call friend again, a small frisson of pleasure adding to the potent concoction tingling through his veins when Luis flinched.

"I don't have to justify my brother to you. But, Dean's a better man than you'll ever be. I'm just sorry it took me so long to realise" His voice had hardened to the extent that he could hardly form his lips around the words. But nothing was going to stop him from saying them, from showing these people that he meant every word.

"Fitch chose him because he would lay down his life for a sonofabitch like you without even _hesitating_. He's saved more lives than I can count, more than I even know about or will probably _ever_ know about...because he does what he does, and he never boasts and he never asks to be thanked"

Sam felt like the conductor of a full scale symphony orchestra as he flailed his arms in animated rage, utterly commanding the room as he made his speech

"And he does it, not because he has to, but because he thinks it's right. He's braver than me because...because once I've killed the thing that's been chasing our family my whole life, I'm done. I'm out. But Dean? For him it's never been about revenge. He just wants to save lives"

Luis looked suddenly, unexpectedly abashed; as if he'd let his mouth run around and cause havoc that his brain had never sanctioned. "Sam, I'm -"

"No. You've said enough" Sam flatly cut across what was likely to be a completely inadequate attempt at an apology.

"I think you should leave, man" Zach stepped forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with Sam, imitating the young hunter's rigid stance with an accuracy that suggested he'd been building up to the intervention for some time, waiting for the right moment. Sam knew he didn't need the physical support, but was moved all the same by the show of loyalty - to _Dean_ as well as to himself.

"Sam-" Luis began again, horror at the snowballing consequences of his actions dawning across his features.

The young hunter took another step forward, this time feeling no pleasure at the other man's fearful shudder. He had never wanted this. But Luis had ruthlessly attacked his brother while he lay broken and vulnerable just a few rooms away. There was no going back.

But there was also the fact that Sam himself should have stopped Luis' rant from ever getting that far. Not standing up for Dean that first night at Pedro's had made the resulting confrontation inevitable with hindsight's cold clarity. He wouldn't be making that mistake again.

"We're done. You stay away from me. And you stay the _hell_ away from my brother" Sam tore his eyes from Luis' pathetic figure and began an examination of the remainder of the group, looking for anyone who was going to back up his brother's detractor, and fully prepared to similarly demolish them. This time the lines he was drawing in the sand were non-negotiable. He and Dean were a package deal, and anyone else who objected could take themselves off to Hell.

But the outrage and abhorrence he read in their expressions were all for the grounded man. For Sam there was a lingering wariness, as if the danger hadn't yet passed; as if the young hunter's tense figure represented an unexploded bomb that had been defused with one second to spare. The caution began to drift towards understanding when he looked at each one in turn, something intangible and unknown in his gaze seeming to effect the change.

He knew ultimately that they'd forgive Luis, but they wouldn't forget. And that would have to suffice.

"Sam?" Rebecca hesitantly gripped his arm and gently turned him around. She stiffened as their eyes met, but didn't shrink from his accusing glare. "Your hand" She murmured, lifting it up for inspection like Dean had just hours earlier. But without his brother's powerful gravitas, the action felt meaningless and bland.

His hand hadn't fared well after its latest outing. Hot blood was trickling down his index finger, burbling liberally from a re-opened cut on the knuckle above, and he could already see that the swelling had worsened. Dean wasn't going to be happy with him.

"C'mon" Rebecca almost cooed at him, and as his adrenaline level suddenly began to free fall it occurred to Sam that he must have looked like a sleepwalker escaped from bed; rumpled clothes, tousled hair and vacant expression all playing their roles to perfection. A exhaustion slammed into him with the blunt force of a sledge hammer as Rebecca began leading him from the living room and into the kitchen.

"I have to get back to Dean" He whined, tiredness and anxiety conspiring to strip him of adulthood as the young woman practically frogmarched him into the dazzling brightness of the Warrens' ludicrously impractical all-white kitchen. He squinted as the light pricked gleefully at his overwrought retinas, raising his free hand to shield them from the glare.

His footsteps squeaked on the grey and white checked flooring as he dragged his feet, and he accidentally cracked his uninjured shin on the edge of a protruding breakfast bar as Rebecca misjudged their passage.

"Just a few minutes Sam, and then you can go check on him" Rebecca reassured him in soothing, muted tones. "I need to take care of your hand, or I'll have _Dean_ to deal with tomorrow. You're both as scary as each other"

"I'm scarier" Sam countered childishly as she deposited him firmly on a harsh metallic chair, the solid outline digging uncomfortably into the base of his spine.

"Well after what you did _back there_...you could be right. Although, I did see Dean shoot his own double in order to save _you_" Rebecca retorted, moving away from him briefly to retrieve an ice pack for his swollen knuckles.

Sam snorted in acknowledgement, a slight smile tweaking at his lips. "My gun's just downstairs in the car, Becca. Don't tempt me"

Rebecca granted the response a chuckle – clearly having no conception of how serious Sam had been – before growing subdued. She gingerly pressed the pack to his hand, apologising under her breath when Sam hissed at the action. "I'm sorry. I should never had said anything to him. I had no idea he'd do that"

"S'okay" He slurred slightly, the chill from the ice settling soothingly into his aching bones. "If it hadn't been that, it would've been something else. He's had it in for Dean from the start"

At the slight creaking of the kitchen door, the two friends startled and immediately turned to see Zach stepping tentatively into the room clutching a first aid kit. "You okay?"

"He gone?" Sam countered with a slow blink.

At Zach's stiff nod, he added. "Then I'm fine"

"Look, Sam-" Zach began after a hesitant cough.

"I'm _not_ sorry I hit him" Sam leapt in quickly, expecting an admonishment from the man who couldn't seem to stop himself from acting the big brother to everyone he met. "But I _am_ sorry that I hit him _here_. If you want us to leave in the morning..."

"Sam, you and Dean can stay here as long as you like, you know that" Rebecca assured him, before turning to shoot Zach a dictatorial glare.

"Of course" Zach agreed easily, scowling back at his sister. "I wasn't going to say otherwise"

"Good!" Rebecca acknowledged with a bright smile, as if she had been the victor of a hard won battle.

"Thanks" Sam gave a soft echo of her grin before pursing his lips in a disapproval that only his big brother could provoke. "Of course, Dean will probably wake up in a few hours and insist that he's ready to get back on the road"

"What, to find another job?" Zach asked incredulously. "But that's crazy!"

"That's my brother" Sam grinned sardonically. "Getting him to stay still for any length of time, unless you have a spare pair of handcuffs..."

There was a companionable quietude as Rebecca took the proffered first aid kit and began to efficiently clean and bandage Sam's wounds. The young hunter was glad of her brevity; his mind had already wandered down the corridor to his brother's room, and his body had been making desperate entreaties to follow on.

"There!" Rebecca announced proudly when she had finished. "Will this pass Dean's inspection?"

Sam chuckled at how well she seemed to know his brother. "Dean won't be happy with it unless he's done it himself. But, yeah, it'll pass" He smiled at her evident pleasure at the compliment, the expression interrupted by a yawn so wide he felt his jaw crack at the motion.

"Okay, I think we've kept him from Dean long enough" Zach clapped Sam on the shoulder, offering the exhausted man a hand up from the chair.

Sam wasn't going to argue, but there was just one thing he needed to do first. "Listen guys...I don't know how to thank you-"

"Not necessary" Rebecca chipped in, pulling him into a brief hug that he returned full force.

"I mean it-"

"Look, if it makes you feel better, you can call us even and leave it at that" As soon as Rebecca had released him, Zach followed her example with an embrace of his own. He patted Sam on the back before sending him on his way with a light shove.

The younger Winchester turned back when he reached the doorway. "Okay"

* * *

><p>Sam heard the noise before he'd even opened the bedroom door: choked, moaning sounds of distress that sliced straight through him, cutting sleep's binding ties and jolting him once more into full wakefulness. His frazzled heart – having been in the midst of winding down in preparation for a few hours' slumber – leapt up with a stutter and scrambled to keep up with his racing mind.<p>

Dean was in trouble.

What if Nathaniel _had_ come back after all? Or worse...what if Fitch had managed to escape somehow?

Cursing himself for having ever left his brother alone and for the lack of foresight that had led to all of their weapons remaining downstairs in the Impala's trunk, Sam fretted silently outside the room. He anxiously frittered ten precious seconds before deciding that spending time forming a plan would only leave Dean in danger for longer.

He burst into the room, teeth bared, fists raised, eyes swinging madly around the room in search of the source of Dean's suffering. Tensing, he half expected to be immediately thrown towards the opposite wall with demonic force. It was a little disconcerting to find that the room's only occupant was a twisting, writhing Dean; tangled obscenely in duvet and sheet as he continued to cry out.

Sam closed his eyes and huffed out in one breath all the horrors he had feverishly been imagining in his panic, allowing his muscles to stand down as he staggered to his brother's side.

A nightmare. Just a nightmare.

Dean was safe. He was _safe_. There was nothing there. Nothing.

He was safe.

The younger Winchester's heart hadn't yet received the memo regarding the lack of imminent threat however, continuing to pound away on the path Sam had set it coursing upon with his embarrassing over-reaction; flooding his body with an overdose of oxygen that made him tingle from root to tip.

Closer inspection of his brother's situation revealed that Dean had managed to entangle himself so inextricably in the bed covers that his arms had become trapped at his side; the fabric stretched taut over sleep befuddled limbs that vigorously fought against the restraint. His head swung from side to side, eyes jammed shut and twitching behind the lids as his nightmare feature presentation played on unchecked.

Sam could only imagine what he was seeing. Didn't particularly want to.

Dean pushed upwards from the mattress, letting out a low, disgruntled growl as the cloth continued to hold him prisoner.

"Dean" The younger man coaxed softly, instinctively looking to comfort rather than startle. "C'mon, man, wake up"

His brother's response was to writhe more manically, breath hitching in pain at the movement.

Was there any situation in life where his brother _wasn't_ a stubborn jerk?

Sam bit his lip in anxiety, his brother's expression of pain resounding so keenly within him that he was half-convinced he'd felt it too. Worried that fever from some clandestine infection had taken hold, he laid a hand on Dean's brow, the weight settling his brother's head in place and beginning to calm his movements.

Warm, but not feverish.

Sam allowed himself a half-smile in relief that was quickly replaced by a frown once more as Dean moaned again, head rolling out of his little brother's light grasp. "M' sorry Sam. I couldn't..." he murmured agitatedly, lips barely twitching around the faint plea. "_Sammy!_"

"Dean!" Sam called desperately as the drowsily uttered words tore strips from his heart. He began tapping his brother's cheek insistently. "_Dean_! Hey, I'm here, man. It's okay. It's _okay_! Wake up, man, you're just dreaming"

"Mmmm" was a little less coherent than Sam had been hoping for, but he'd take it over his brother's frantically mumbled apologies any day.

"Yeah, man, that's it" He encouraged as Dean's rigid muscles slackened minutely, allowing Sam to start the process of freeing his brother from his self-imposed bonds. "Can't leave you alone for a second, huh?"

Dean's eyelids fluttered delicately and Sam instantly stilled, waiting to see the reassuring light from his brother's eyes, and not afraid to admit to himself that he _needed_ to. He paused for a beat, but when Dean's lashes settled back against his cheeks with barely a whisper of movement, the younger Winchester sighed in disappointment. But at least his brother no longer appeared to be in distress, resting comfortably back against his pillow as his chest rose and fell in hypnotic rhythm.

Pulling a lolling arm free, Sam tutted as he saw the faint lines that marked Dean's bicep from where the sheet had dug into the skin. Carefully he laid it to rest at his brother's side and leaned across Dean's chest to investigate the predicament facing the other arm.

The sheet was firmly wrapped around it, twisted in a manner that Sam couldn't possibly imagine how his brother had engineered, nightmare or not. The elder Winchester was somehow lying on top of that section of fabric, meaning that Sam was going to have to lift him up in order to remove what amounted to a makeshift tourniquet.

"Can't ever make things easy for yourself, can you?" Sam sighed, sliding a hand underneath his brother's shoulders. "Or _me_"

Dean let out a low sound of protest at the almost-hug as Sam lifted him as best he could, other paw engaged in the elaborate task of pulling out the sheet. "Trust me, man, this is helping. I know you'd rather it was Angelina, but she's a little busy right now, so I'm the best you got!"

"Mmmm" he got again, whether in agreement or not he couldn't tell. Well...Dean wasn't awake to contradict him, so agreement it was.

"Damn right!" Sam muttered, unable to suppress the little pang of affection that this small glimpse into an unguarded Dean evoked.

Freeing his brother's other arm, he settled the older man back against the squidgy mattress, nearly pitching forward himself as he struggled to find a grip on a surface that seemed to have all the structure and consistency of whipped cream.

He smiled once more as Dean, languidly rejoicing in his freedom of movement, snuggled down against his now misshapen pillow. Now soundly, peacefully asleep, Dean didn't so much as twitch when Sam straightened out the sheet and duvet – effectively tucking him in like the little boy he so resembled in his slumber. The younger Winchester could remember many a night growing up when his big brother had carried out just such a gesture for him, and the cosy sense of comfort and safety it had always conveyed.

He wondered if Dean had felt a similar sense of fulfilment. Deep and satisfying, like something hot melting in his chest.

Patting his brother gently on the shoulder, he pulled back, enjoying the atmosphere of closeness he felt with Dean's unmasked self. He knew come morning that his brother would be back to his grouchy, incorrigible persona. And as much as Sam yearned for things to return to normal between them, he had to admit that he wasn't much looking forward to the battle he knew he'd face to keep his brother down for more than a few hours.

Thoughts of beautiful, delicious sleep began intruding once more and the younger man quickly retrieved his clothes from the duffel he remembered he'd left in the other spare room what seemed like years ago, but which in reality had been just over twenty four hours. He felt like he had lived a lifetime in that day.

Felt like he had _aged_ a lifetime.

Worried that his brief absence would upset his brother's equilibrium once more, he was relieved to find Dean exactly as he had left him, breathing smoothly and deeply. Resting. Finally.

Deciding that he had earned something similar, the younger hunter changed swiftly before flicking off the light and gingerly lifting the covers on the other side of the bed; sliding in with a minimum of jostling, not wanting to do anything that might disturb his brother. Dean would very likely have something to say about them sharing a bed when he woke up in the morning, but Sam would deal with that when it happened.

There was no way he was leaving again.

The bed was so soft it almost ached against Sam's shakily exhausted body, but there was just one more thing he had to do before he let sleep have its way with him. He shuffled over so that he was within reach of Dean, before laying a hand across his brother's arm so that he'd feel during the night if the older man suffered another nightmare.

He didn't even remember closing his eyes.

* * *

><p>Sam woke to rumpled covers and an empty room.<p>

So much for his genius Dean Winchester early warning system. He'd been so totalled he'd not only slept through his brother's wakening, but had also apparently been oblivious to his exit from the room. And Dean wouldn't have been in any fit state for stealth.

Sam was up and out of bed without forethought, swaying dizzily on his feet as sleep reluctantly relinquished its hold over body and brain.

_Friggin' stubborn jerk of a jackass_.

Where the hell had he gone? What had the idiot been _thinking_? Oh, he was _so_ in for it when Sam found him.

The younger Winchester scrabbled for his duffel, mindlessly ripping a pair of jeans and a t-shirt from its core and dumping the bag absently on the floor. Hopping comically on one foot, he hastily pulled on denims that seemed to delight in getting twisted around his feet. But after nearly overbalancing for what felt like the umpteenth time, he finally emerged victorious.

The shirt went on more smoothly, but it was only when he caught sight of himself in the hallway mirror that he realised he had tugged it on backwards. Huffing in irritation at the time wasted, he quickly fixed his error, barely pausing to pull the fabric back down properly in his haste to search the apartment for his wayward brother.

The glorious scent of sizzling bacon, coupled with a quick glance at his watch told him that it was late morning, and he hoped he'd merely find his brother in the kitchen where the food was. It was a Winchester family joke that where a missing Dean was concerned, the first port of call was to search near a source of food.

_Yeah._ Sam thought. That's where he would be. Sitting at the breakfast bar, waiting for a hearty meal to be served up.

His face plummeted when the kitchen revealed only the bustling figures of the two industrious Warrens as they worked in well-rehearsed tandem to prepare breakfast: Rebecca at the stove frying a pan filled to the brim with dripping rashers, Zach feeding ingredients to a juicer from a bowl of chopped fruit.

"Oh, hey, morning Sam!" Rebecca greeted him with a smile as she looked up at his entrance.

"Sleep okay?" Zach chimed in cheerfully.

"Where is he?" Sam demanded, jaw locked down so tight he wasn't quite sure how he'd even gotten the words out.

"Dean?" Rebecca frowned, pausing while the frying meat crackled and hissed in the background. "You mean he isn't with you? I haven't seen him"

"You haven't?" Sam started to crackle and hiss himself as a bubble of fear started to rise from the pool of exasperation sitting at the base of his stomach. The twin expressions of 'uh-oh' on the faces of his two friends were enough to send the mixture shooting up through him like a thermal geyser.

Zach set down the bowl with a decisive clunk. "Okay, you check the bathrooms, I'll check the living room and the dining room"

It didn't take long to find that the door to one of the bathrooms was ominously closed, the unmistakable sound of a running shower wafting from within. The image left Sam with a metaphorical connotation he didn't want to think about. Dean's barriers would be glued in place now. This was going to be a struggle.

But Sam was a furious little brother with a recalcitrant older brother to take care of, and if Dean thought that being unruly and difficult was going to relieve him of the requirement to submit to the younger man's mothering, then it was going to be Sam's job to disabuse him of that notion with as much force as necessary.

Sam drew himself up to his full, overbearing height and reached for the door handle, fully preparing to barge in and check that his brother hadn't managed to do himself any further damage. When his efforts were thwarted by the unassailable setback of discovering that the lock was firmly in place, he found himself gritting his teeth so intensely that his jaw throbbed in protest.

"Dean?" He yelled, banging on the door with his uninjured fist, unable to keep his frustrated fear from slipping out into his voice.

"_What_?" came the slightly hoarse, but unequivocally irritated response.

"You okay?" The younger man couldn't prevent himself from asking, trying to keep the image of a collapsed Dean from intruding into his thoughts and ruining his control.

"I'm _fine_, dude. I don't need help takin' a shower. _I_ used to bathe _you_ remember?"

"Okay, so unlock the door and get the _hell_ out here _now_!" Sam ordered, bluntly side-stepping his brother's attempt at a diversion.

"In a minute Sam. You're my brother, but there are some things _brothers_ just don't share, man!"

Sam closed his eyes, mentally counting to ten, then adding ten more for good measure. He was pretty sure Zach and Rebecca wouldn't appreciate it if he kicked down their bathroom door. "_Dean_!"

"All right, all _right_" He could hear the edge to his brother's tone now, the one that meant Sam was seconds away from acquiring a new bruise along his jawline. _Friggin' let him try!_ the younger Winchester muttered under his breath.

"I take it you found him, then?" Zach came marching down the hallway, slowing to a halt at Sam's nod. "I heard yelling...Is everything okay?"

"A minor disagreement" Sam explained through clenched teeth. "Nothing I can't handle"

"All right, I'll finish breakfast then?" Zach remained on guard until Sam flashed a smile to let him know that he could stand down from duty.

The younger Winchester listened to the muffled thudding of Zach's footsteps on the thick carpet as he padded away, watching for the twitch of the door handle that would signal Dean's appearance.

As soon as Sam heard the lock clicking open, he grasped the handle and yanked the door open before his brother had time to even draw breath. His eyes took in Dean's bedraggled figure in one sweep.

Wet, tufted hair crowned a face that was still far too pale; freckles darkly standing out like ink spots against paper-white skin. His eyes struggled to light up the dark smudges circling the skin below, giving him a deathly visage that made Sam's heart begin a demented tap dance in his chest.

Dean had managed to dress himself, but looked as if the exertion of that small act had taken his last reserve of strength. The clothes hung limply from his frame, leading Sam to wonder if his gaunt brother had somehow lost several pounds over the twenty four hours of abuse he'd suffered.

"What the hell were you _thinking_ Dean?" Sam balled up his concern and shrouded it within the much more easily dealt with feeling of extreme exasperation. He grabbed his brother's shoulder, pulling him forwards with more vigour than he might otherwise have sanctioned had he not been so irritated, noting as he did so that Dean had apparently tried to re-wrap the bandages on his wrists – and most likely his ankles too. But he had done a poor job.

Dean made an effort to dislodge Sam's grip, frowning at his lack of success. "I was _thinkin' _that after bein' covered in blood for the last...however many hours that it might be nice to actually get clean!"

Sam winced, but refused to relent. "And you couldn't have woken me up?" He began tugging his intractable brother down the hallway towards their bedroom, frowning as the still worryingly frail older man stumbled slightly in his hold.

Dean visibly set his jaw as Sam shifted to grasp him more supportively with both hands. "Dude, I'm not _four_! And I don't even wanna know what exactly you were doin' in the same bed, Sammy, but next time get your own! 'Sides..." he lowered his voice as he grew suddenly serious. "You said it yourself, Sammy. You hadn't had any sleep since you got outta hospital"

"Dean..." Sam sighed, torn between affection and disapproval at his brother's admission. How was he supposed to keep up this stern routine when his big brother could undercut it with one solemn sentiment?

He cleared his throat. "Well, you won't be doing it again. Not until you're better"

"What are you talkin' about, Sammy? I said I'm _fine_!" Dean stiffened as he seemed to suddenly realise where they were heading. "And I don't need to lie down"

"You're going to lie down while I check you haven't done anything stupid, like rip out all your stitches"

"Cut it out, Sam!" Dean dug his heels into the carpet with the determination of a toddler settling in for an epic tantrum, solidly refusing to be manhandled any further. "We don't have time for this, man! I'm _fine_. All we need to do is say our goodbyes, pack up the Impala, and get on our way..." He sniffed the air, lips twitching into a smirk that entirely undermined his attempt to sound authoritative. "_After_ breakfast"

"Dean, we aren't going anywhere. Not for a day _at least_" Sam turned to stare down his brother, using his height advantage to full effect. "Dude, look at you! You just took a shower and you're practically passing out like a little girl"

"Am _not_!" Dean argued, but the breathlessness in his voice betrayed him. "I'll be good to go as soon as I get some food in me"

Sam narrowed his eyes slyly, contemplating his brother steadily from under hooded lids as he shifted to more effectively block Dean's path. "You can have some breakfast _after_ I've checked your stitches" _And re-wrapped your wrists and ankles, and checked your head, and, and, and..._

Dean rolled his eyes, registering his extreme displeasure at the coddling.

But he relented, as Sam had known he would.

* * *

><p>"Sam, you <em>specifically<em> said I could have breakfast if I let you go all Nurse Nora on me" Dean complained against the hand that was holding him down against the mattress, grinding his teeth internally at the whine that had somehow leaked out along with the words.

In truth, the squishy surface felt incredible against jellied limbs and a pounding head, but there was no way Sammy was going to find out about _that_. His brother had apparently found more than enough to fret about over the fact that Dean had decided to take a friggin' shower. Although said shower hadn't exactly been a walk in the park, as his aching midriff and stinging abrasions were more than happy to testify.

He'd wakened that morning feeling like he'd been run over by a monster truck with steel tires, his brain taking several seconds to catalogue his injuries and to remind him with self-defeating glee of the reality of the previous day's events. When he'd finished reviewing the footage, systematically editing it for future consumption, he began to wish a ten ton truck really _had_ been the culprit.

At least that would have been a manly way to have been taken out of action; something that could have been boasted about. Not the distinctly pathetic situation of having been kidnapped and strapped to a _stupid_ piece of rock, with a _stupid,_ ugly, creepy bastard slicing a pattern into his torso with with a _stupid, _decorative knife.

"Yeah, that's right. I _did_ say that. But I never said you weren't going to be lying down when you ate it" Sam countered with an infuriating smirk that just reeked of his brother's smug sense of victory.

The kid would've made a damn fine lawyer.

Finding Sam lying next to him on the king size bed that morning shouldn't have surprised him; especially after the embarrassing mother-henning marathon his little brother had subjected him to after their arrival at the apartment. He _should_ have expected the kid to have been sticking to him like glue. The sight had brought a lump to his throat, a tangible sign of the extent to which he needed his brother.

He just hadn't thought that need went both ways.

As he'd surveyed his slumbering brother, spread-eagled chaotically across the mattress in that irrepressible way he'd always slept since very young. Even lost in the maze of sleep, Sammy was all motion. As children, when they'd had to share smaller beds for expediency, Dean would often wake to find a tiny foot prodding him in the cheek, or an arm flung across his nose. Only the sheer enormity of the king bed had saved him from being molested on this occasion.

Having had free rein to scrutinise his brother's form, he'd been troubled by what he'd found. Even at rest his brother's mouth had been twisted anxiously, a frown ribbing his forehead. His mop of hair had clung to his head in greasy clumps, pasted down against pinched, wan features. A bandaged hand had been thrown upwards towards the headrest, and Dean had suddenly been assaulted by a memory flash of his brother driving fist after fist into the face of his would be murderer.

Guiltily, he'd realised he'd forgotten all about the injury. He'd known he ought to have made sure that his brother had done something about it before he'd submitted to Sam's fussing. It had been clear that _someone_ had taken the time to see to his little brother though, but Dean had made a mental note to examine it later to make sure that it had been done to his satisfaction.

Taking Dean's continued silence as evidence of further resistance, Sam began applying more pressure.

Exasperated by the ease with which Sam held him pinned, the elder Winchester instead attempted to wriggle free of his little brother's annoyingly strong grip. "Get the hell_ off_ me, man!"

"Dean, you are going to _stay_ horizontal if I have to friggin' tie you up to do it" Sam continued to thwart his bid for freedom with a frustratingly facile dexterity.

"Sam, what you do in the privacy of the bedroom is _your_ thing - and I really don't wanna know - but I'm not that kinky" Dean smirked cockily, the only avenue now open to him being to annoy the kid as much as possible. When all he received in response was the bitchy, pursed grimace that only his little brother could pull off with such panache, he relented once more. And Sammy thought _he_ was the stubborn one.

"All right, I'll stay off my feet, but I'm _not_ lyin' down. And I want some pie" Dean began pushing insistently against his brother's restraint once more.

"Couch in the living room. All day" Sam compromised with an exaggerated sigh that managed to convey both affection and irritation, finally relinquishing his grip on his big brother. "And I'll get you some pie"

"Make it two and you got a deal"

When Sam smiled, he knew he'd been had. "Deal"

Yep. A damn fine lawyer.

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! <em>

_I didn't intend for this part of the story to get so long, but you can blame angry Sam and sleepy Dean, who seemed to take on a life of their own! ;)_

_To all those who wanted Luis to get his comeuppance...hope it was worth the wait!_


	18. Walk On

Hi everyone!

I know I said I _thought_ this would be the last one...but I've decided to add an epilogue, so there will be one small part after this! Thanks to all who took the time to review, your feedback means the world to me!

Also, just wanted to add a quick thanks to DeansMuse for the suggestion of including a conversation between Dean and Jenna.

Hope you all enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Chapter 18 – Walk On**

Joseph Fitchpatrick had never felt so old.

His age in years was a number he had forgotten long ago, a figure he'd never needed to keep track of. Nevertheless, he knew he had lived hundreds of lifetimes, years running into the thousands. But it wasn't enough, wasn't any where _near_ enough. Not when he faced an eternity in Hell.

Fitch shifted restlessly; the criminally uncomfortable mat that topped his bench making a depressingly half-hearted attempt to mitigate the solid harshness of the cell's only real furnishing. He winced as even that slight movement set off a cluster-bomb explosion of pain popping through his crushed nose and across his split cheeks. He'd received basic medical care upon arraignment, but Sam Winchester's assault had left him feeling swollen, foggy and bleary eyed.

That infernal boy! He'd ruined _everything_.

Fitch had honed his ritual over the years so that it had become little more than a housekeeping task, a minor inconvenience that was ultimately essential to ensure the smooth running of his life. It was a very _enjoyable_ chore, however. One he took great care and pleasure over planning. He'd never failed at it before, had never even come _close_ since those first few dicey cycles in the early years. And certainly not since he'd had Nathaniel.

He didn't think he'd be seeing his _trusty_ servant any time soon. Not since the Winchester boy's friend had vandalised and destroyed the icon of Itharacos. No, his freed slave would be long gone by now.

Fitch closed his eyes in dismay, thinking of the enormity of the task ahead of him. Not only had he to escape from this dirt encrusted, maddeningly cramped excuse for a prison, but he had to finish the ritual before the end of the year without any assistance – with an utterly ruined cover story. He'd have to completely start over. New city, new job, new victims...

He sighed, coughing as the fetid air clogged his throat. At least he'd always kept _his_ dungeon clean – a sign of the pride he maintained in his work. He scathingly surveyed the squalid cell, eyes dispassionately taking in angrily scrawled graffiti about who had ratted out who, or who was going to suffer terrible consequences for whatever trivial reason...

Useless, pathetic lives. He felt filthy from merely having shared the same space as these miscreants. Fitch was a man who was used to hand-picking the world's most virtuous. People worthy of sacrifice, worthy of giving him life. It was much more fun manipulating them, catching them, torturing them. Killing the undeserving would seem righteous somehow, depriving him of the powerful high he felt from taking the lives of innocents.

Dean Winchester had been like the sweetest drug, too good to pass up; the danger associated with the man's career as a hunter only adding to the pleasure of capturing him, of possessing him. But he knew now that he ought to have been more careful, ought to have used his years of experience to judge when to go for the easier kill. He hadn't counted on having to deal with a determined, protective little brother, and that had been his downfall.

He wouldn't be making that mistake again. Oh, but in many ways it had been worth it...and, being truthful to himself, he'd have gone for the beautiful hunter again and again. He'd just have made sure that Sam Winchester had been killed before he could interfere.

_Live and learn_.

Fitch startled as the muffled sound of heavy footsteps pricked his ears. Vaguely, he wondered if those supercilious detective bastards were returning to question him further. They'd kept him in that bland interview room all through the night, launching rapid fire questions at him from widely diverging angles as they tried to disorientate him and catch him off guard. But Fitch was too good to fall for that, and with his snivelling lawyer having been more than happy to fend off the onslaught for him, he'd managed to tell them nothing of any use.

The clipped footsteps slowed to a precise halt outside his cell, and Fitch stilled as he heard the clink of a key being inserted into the lock and the resulting ear-splitting screech as it was wrenched harshly in its place.

He glanced with illusory boredom towards the door as it creaked open, feigning further disinterest as he cast a beady eye over his visitor.

A new grunt this time, one Fitch couldn't remember seeing before. A balding, overweight waste of space bulging out of an ill-fitting uniform waddled into the confined room, shrinking the space as if he had his own gravitational pull. Red liver spots blotted onto a leathery forehead stood out starkly in the dim lighting, giving the unfortunate looking creature an even more downtrodden aura.

They contemplated each other in silence for a few beats. When it looked like the officer wasn't going to speak or in any way give reason for his presence, Fitch decided to take the initiative.

"Can I help you?" He asked, goading the moronic sonofabitch with a smarmy smirk. The action tugged painfully at his swollen, bruised cheeks but he kept his self-assured mask firmly in place.

"Yeah, actually. You can," Came a rough, gravelly voice labouring under the burden of a likely twenty a day habit, followed by a malevolent smile that Fitch realised - with a lurching nausea - that he would have recognised anywhere. All at once, the cell door slammed shut with an echoing clang from some unseen force, and the man stepped forward, eyes flicking to a deep black.

"Nathaniel," Fitch yelped as a sudden fear gripped him, shuffling clumsily backwards until the solid, unyielding mass of the cell wall halted his retreat.

"I've come to collect my paycheck..._Boss_," The demon raised a hand, yellowed teeth glittering evilly in the shadows.

And clenched his fist.

* * *

><p>It was late in the afternoon when they heard the news.<p>

Dean Winchester had, thus far, kept his word to his little brother. He'd dutifully maintained position on the living room couch after a hearty breakfast and the two pies that Sam had bribed him with – though Zach had been tasked with both purchase and delivery since the younger Winchester had rather embarrassingly refused to leave his big brother's side.

He'd dosed off at some point after eating his fill, realising that there weren't many activities open to him whilst reclining – not _lying_, as he'd pointedly informed his brother on numerous occasions – on a couch in a room full of people. He hadn't meant to let his fatigue conquer him, not wanting to give Sam any more reason to keep up his _Deanwatch_ routine; the kid had been practically on his feet every time his big brother so much as twitched, and the elder hunter had definitely been chafing under the surveillance.

He'd yawned at one point, flinching tellingly as the action stretched the achingly tender wound on his midriff. An enormous paw cradling two little white pills had been hovering insistently in front of his nose before he'd even closed his mouth. To even have entertained the idea of refusing would have meant enduring disapproving, frowny Sam for the rest of the day, and Dean had seen more than enough of him already.

The painkillers, combined with poorly replenished energy reserves and the surprisingly comfortable atmosphere of sharing space with his brother, Zach and Rebecca had conspired to droop his eyelids ever lower until they'd settled in for the duration; his consciousness following not long after.

He'd wakened some unknown length of time later, groggy, dry-mouthed...and covered with a blanket.

Sam. Who else?

The room had been empty, but a warm rumble of conversation had emanated reassuringly from the kitchen, along with laughter he'd recognised as Sam's and the purposeful clinking of crockery. Lunch, he'd assumed, or maybe dinner? A brief squint at his watch had suggested the former, and thinking that company was imminent, he had hastily shoved the duvet to his toes and levered himself into a more upright position.

He'd still been blinking away the last vestiges of sleepy befuddlement when Zach Warren had quietly edged into the room, laden plate and brimming glass in hand as he'd tip-toed towards a glass covered, black lattice-work coffee table that waited in the centre of room. Peering over at Dean he'd nearly dropped his culinary cargo when he'd realised that the hunter had been not only awake but amusedly watching his every move.

"Hey!" He'd squawked in surprise, looking around blindly for a brief moment before apparently remembering that he'd been planning to set Dean's lunch down on the coffee table. "You're awake. How are you feeling?"

Dean had shot an involuntary glance at the plate before answering: a plump, juicy looking burger with all of his favourite trimmings. Sam's doing again, he'd supposed. "Yeah, I'm uh, I'm good thanks," The words had creaked like old hinges, so he'd cleared his throat and reached for the glass of what had turned out to be soda. Not that he'd expected beer, but...

"Right," Zach had stood awkwardly before him for a moment, shuffling his feet nervously before seeming to decide that his safest option was to retreat. The two men hadn't yet been alone in each other's company. "I'll go tell Sam you're awake-."

"Wait!" Dean had called him to a halt, duty eventually prevailing against the might of his empty stomach. "Just leave him a sec. I got somethin' I need to say."

"Okay," Zach, looking curious, had pivoted slowly on the spot, opting to sit on the couch opposite before raising his eyebrows expectantly at the young hunter.

Disconcertingly, Dean had found himself doing the mental equivalent of shuffling his feet nervously as he'd tried to find words that were not only appropriate but which also conveyed in a non-humiliating way how he had begun to view his brother's old friend. "Listen...uh," he'd paused with an uncomfortable smile. "This isn't uh...okay, uh, I just...I wanted to say _thanks_."

When Zach had looked like he might have interrupted, Dean had held up a silencing hand. "Not just for...well, all _this_, but for what you did for Sam while he was at school here. You were there for him when I couldn't be."

Zach had levelled his gaze, something like understanding glinting in his friendly eyes. "You're welcome. You _both_ are. But Dean, you know I could never replace you, right?"

Dean had blanched at that one, the way the other man had cut right to the core of it; the part that had bothered him most. And he'd thought he'd disguised it so well. "What?"

"You're Sam's big brother. Nothing's going to change that," Zach had continued, acting as if Dean's indignant squeak had never happened. He'd shot the elder hunter a glance that had been altogether too knowing for Dean not to have caught its drift.

So he'd abandoned all attempts at pretence, nodding mechanically at Zach's words, recognising their shrill ring of truth. Everything Sam had done for him, every action, gesture...every expression that had crossed his features had told Dean that simple fact in ways that words wouldn't have been able to do justice. He'd been so self-absorbed, feeling so maligned and hard done by, that he'd made Zach Warren the villain of a situation that just hadn't existed.

He'd thought he ought to have felt ashamed that Zach had seen through him so easily, but somehow he hadn't. Somehow he'd known that the other man had understood, wasn't judging him.

"You know what, Zach?" He'd smirked, reaching for the exquisite burger, faintly surprised at his ability to have resisted it for such a length of time. "You're all right."

It had been appreciation and apology all rolled into one.

"Thanks! I get the feeling that's high praise, coming from you!" Zach had chuckled with natural ease, rising to his feet.

"Damn right! Should feel honoured, dude!" The smile he'd tossed Zach in response had been genuinely relaxed, the first such one he'd had in days; and when he'd laughed at the other man's mocking bow, he'd known he was going to be fine.

A few seconds later and Sam had bounded into the room like an overgrown puppy, looking so happy to see his big brother awake that it had been difficult to stop himself from walking right into a monster of a chick-flick moment. He'd permitted a brief status check and concerned examination, somehow feeling comforted rather than embarrassed by the attention - not that he'd acted with anything other than grouchy resentment - before the four of them had sat down to eat their meal.

Sometime later, when they'd felt languid and sated from food, Zach had turned on the television; the news catching his eye.

And that was when they'd heard.

"Our top news story this afternoon: a Stanford Academic Adviser who was arrested last night on suspicion of the ritualistic killings of several of the School's students was found murdered in his cell this morning," The news anchorwoman was the type of perfectly groomed, plastic looking automaton whose botox riddled features looked incapable of producing anything further than a gritted teeth smile or a blankly frozen stare – the latter of which was now being worn in deference to the seriousness of the subject matter.

"Joseph Fitchpatrick was an adviser for the School of Humanities and Social Sciences, and had been found to have had contact with each of the murdered students: Annabeth Carlson, Gerry McCafferty, Jake Moretti and Michael Edelman. Reports suggest that an anonymous tip led police to a cabin in the Purisima Creek region, where he was found bound and gagged inside a ritual chamber apparently of his own making."

Dean glanced across at Sam, only to find that his brother's gaze was already locked unwaveringly upon him, studying him intently. The _Are you okay?_ he read there was screaming so loudly he was surprised Zach and Rebecca hadn't heard it too.

He nodded shortly. _I'm fine!_ he sent back, only to receive in reaction a frown filled with such scepticism he wondered why Sam had even bothered asking if he'd been so _damn sure_ of the answer.

Turning back to the television screen, an involuntary jolt caused him to recoil backwards slightly as he caught sight of Fitch's glinting smile beaming back at him from a montage hovering somewhere in the air beside the anchorwoman. He swallowed, this time resolutely ignoring Sam's radiating concern, not wanting his brother to see what was really hidden in his depths.

The anchorwoman was continuing solemnly in the background. "Police this morning found Mr Fitchpatrick dead in his secure cell, where he is said to have been brutally murdered. We managed to speak to one officer earlier who described the scene as being 'like something out of a horror movie', and 'the worst crime scene he had ever attended.' Palo Alto PD are now launching an investigation as to how something so horrific could have taken place on their own territory and under their watch"

Sam raised the remote control and muted the report, turning to stare dazedly at the group. He shook his head in disbelief, shock floating in the air around him like dust particles. As Dean watched his brother, he saw the instant that surprise turned to grim satisfaction. He hadn't exactly been feeling overly sympathetic about the fate of the slimy bastard who'd tortured and nearly killed him, but the recognition of Sam's vengeful streak wasn't filling him with much comfort either. Nor was the fact that _he_ was the cause of it.

"Nathaniel?" Sam queried mildly, deferring to Dean for confirmation.

"I'd say so," The elder Winchester muttered, eyes snagged once more by the television screen as a jerky film of the cabin where he'd been held prisoner began playing in the background; white clad forensic officers and uniformed personnel milling around behind flickering police tape. The floodlights erected by both police and news companies seemed somehow to lend the place an even more ghostly, ethereal sheen.

He suppressed a shudder, looking up to find the eyes of the room scrutinising him concernedly once more. "I've heard of angry employees, but..." the joke was poor, but the meagre defence allowed him to pin a smirk back onto his face and deflect the brunt of their worry.

This was fine. _He_ was fine. And he'd be a whole lot better if people didn't keep trying to make him believe that he wasn't. He was dealing with this. The cabin, Fitch...all of it was getting shut in his emotional lockbox, discarded and disowned. The Winchester way.

Much as he found he was coming to like Zach and Rebecca, the desire to leave had been growing exponentially within him since he'd woken up that morning, spiking at the realisation that staying here was only going to keep throwing reminders of the whole horrible experience at him, trying to bombard him until he cracked. They really needed to get the hell out.

But then...Sammy...he _deserved_ this. He deserved some down time with his friends, deserved to enjoy their warmth and respect now that they really knew him. In a completely non-sappy - and not _remotely_ chick-flicky - way, Dean wanted his brother to enjoy being appreciated for the person he was, and not the role he had played for so many years.

Okay, he was proud of the kid. He was admitting it, even if it was to himself _only_. Sam had held it together over the past few days with impressive composure, seemingly achieving the near impossible by not only _finding_ his big brother but _saving_ his worthless ass too.

Hell yeah, Dean was proud.

So he grudgingly agreed when Sam later announced that they'd be staying with the Warrens for another night. But clearly not grudgingly enough, for his apparently unconvincing capitulation had the kid descending upon him faster than a falling Acme anvil: palming his forehead to check for a temperature; force-feeding him painkillers; and practically frogmarching him through to the bedroom to ensure that he hadn't managed to rip out some stitches during the strenuous activity of _reclining on the couch_.

Dean, in turn, had insisted on having the opportunity to check Sam's injured knuckles, figuring that turnabout was fair play. He wasn't prepared for the nervous fidgeting and bitten lip his demand sparked in his little brother, nor for the game of dodgeball Sam's eyes had suddenly started playing with his.

The elder hunter creased his brow, inspecting his brother speculatively from underneath suspiciously hooded lids as he leaned back against his pillow. "What's goin' on, Sam?"

Sam visibly shrunk from the scrutiny looking almost abashed, like a dog slinking away after it had been caught doing something it shouldn't have. "N-nothing!" he exclaimed with a shiftiness that would have been obvious even to someone who didn't know Sam as well as his brother did.

Dean pushed his lips out and inhaled deeply through his nose. The 'bad news' expression sat revealingly on his brother's face once more, and Dean couldn't imagine what Sam managed to do over the past few hours that he thought would make his big brother so angry. Or maybe not _angry_, but concerned?

"Sam?" Dean leaned forward on the bed, worry urging him to close the physical gap between them. "You okay? Somethin' happen?" He reached out to snag his brother's injured hand before Sam could slide it out of reach.

The younger man sighed, a sound of weary resignation. "I'm fine, Dean. It's nothing like that." He made to slip his hand from Dean's hold, but the elder hunter tightened his grip, trapping it in place.

"Then what?" Dean felt his brow tighten once more as he began unwrapping his brother's bandages, mouth thinning when he noticed the small patches of blood that had seeped upwards through the inner layers. He cast Sam an expectant look, setting his jaw in dissatisfaction when Sam gave him stony defiance in return.

Oh, this was going to be good.

Dean hissed slightly as he removed the final wad of gauze from Sam's raw skin, darkly crusting wounds making the appendage look like a post-war battlefield.

"Wanna tell me why this looks worse than it did last night?" Dean could do patronising parent just as well as his brother apparently could, but he'd had years more practice.

"He deserved it," Sam defended himself stiffly, wincing as he unintentionally flexed the hand Dean held in his loose but unyielding grasp.

Dean cocked his head, wondering at the level of anger that even the _thought_ of this mystery man seemed to precipitate in his brother. "Who did?" The elder hunter demanded, genuinely flummoxed. Who the hell had Sammy been hitting besides Fitch?

Sam looked away from the heat of his brother's blistering stare. "No one."

_C'mon Sammy, even _you _can do better than that!_ Dean thought frustratedly, but aloud he forced calmness into his tone. "Okay, Sam. If that's the way you wanna play it. Maybe I'll just go and have a chat to your friends...?"

He began pushing up from the bed, overbalancing slightly as his hand disappeared into the depths of the mattress. Sam stopped him before he'd even made it upright, free hand on his big brother's shoulder, gently easing him back down.

"All right, all _right_," He blurted hastily, waiting until Dean was settled before continuing. "It was Luis."

Dean continued to level a steady stare at his brother, trying to bore a hole into the younger man's brain so that he could pluck truth from well-meaning fabrication when the explanation eventually came.

Luis.

Dean's opinion of the jerk was somewhere in the region of 'asshole with absolutely no redeeming qualities', but he'd tried to keep that to himself as best he could, because Luis was Sam's friend. There had to have been something good in him for his little brother to have liked him in the first place.

Why then, would Sam have wanted to smack the annoying sonofabitch?

Then understanding suddenly broke within him with the force of a bursting dam. Hot shame flooded the pit of his stomach, and all at once it was _his_ turn to play hide and seek with his brother's eyes. He reached deliberately for the first aid kit, fiddling mindlessly with the contents as he grappled with what he had just discovered.

Was there no end to the destruction he had wielded on his brother's life?

Sam had been silently watching him with the kind of irritating, scholarly consideration he always applied to complex problems that required solving. But Dean wasn't about to be a friggin' lab rat.

"I can fight my own battles Sam," He snapped, slamming his emotional barriers into place with furious force. Inwardly fuming, he picked what he needed from the first aid kit and began to clinically tend to Sam's knuckles with a delicacy that stood completely at odds to the harshness of his response.

"Not last night you couldn't!" Sam burst out fiercely, trying reflexively to tug his hand free from his brother's ministrations once more.

_Dammit! _Now he'd managed to hurt the kid again, and in a way that had nothing to do with medical treatment.

"You're my _brother_ Dean! Do you really think I'm not gonna stick up for you when-," Sam cut himself off abruptly, and the elder Winchester found himself wondering who exactly his brother was trying to protect by not finishing the sentence: himself or Dean.

"Yeah, cos you've been doin' such a _bang up_ job up until now!" Dean lashed out sarcastically before wincing internally at the unintentional outburst. Dammit, he really hadn't meant to say that.

But instead of a furious retort, Sam seemed to deflate before him; drooping like a wilted flower. "I know," He murmured shamefully. "If I'd just done that in the first place, it would never have gotten that bad."

That bad? For Sam to have flipped out and socked the guy, it must've been pretty friggin' _bad_. Maybe Dean ought to pay Luis a visit himself...

"Look, I'm sorry Sammy. I didn't mean it," Dean apologised, grimacing at Sam's palpable mortification. "Just...I'm not some medieval fair maiden, all right? Someone has a problem with me, you _send_ them to _me_"

"Dean, I'm not going to apologise for defending you! Besides, if I'd sent him through to you last night...I mean, you couldn't even fight off the _bed covers_ Dean!"

The elder Winchester scowled. He'd already heard that story far too many times over the course of the day, and it seemed Sammy still wasn't ready to let him forget it.

"Okay. Fine. But next time..." Dean muttered lowly, beginning to re-wrap Sam's hand. The shame was still clinging fervently to him like an explosive limpet to the hull of a fortified ship, but there was little he could do about the outcome. Jeez, he couldn't wait to get out of this town so that he could start being the _big brother_ again.

"Yeah, Dean. Next time I'll just let people say what they like about you, huh?" Sam shook his head with long-suffering exasperation. "You're just going to have to get used to the fact that we're in this _together _now Dean."

"I don't want you losin' your friends over me, Sam" Dean let slip from behind the barrier he'd thought was locked tight, cringing at the appearance of an expression on his brother's face that could only be adequately described as _sappy_.

"They're my friends, Dean. But _you're_ my _brother_"

The elder Winchester was saved from being dragged further into a situation that was rapidly descending deep into chick-flick territory by the sound of someone arriving through the apartment door.

He cleared his throat, tying off the bandage firmly and patting his brother's arm. "Looks like we got company" He observed with a closed mouth smile. It was the last thing he wanted to be faced with, but Sam was looking distinctly like he wanted to have some sort of searching of souls, outpouring of hearts session. And Dean would take whatever distraction he could get. "Better go see who it is"

* * *

><p>Dean edged his way down the hallway, the ever present ache that compressed his middle twinging at every step. The hand that skimmed along the wall beside him had absolutely <em>nothing<em> to do with keeping him upright, he just liked the feel of the smooth wall beneath his fingertips. And every so often he liked to rub his cheek against it too...only without warning his brain first.

"I really don't think that's a good idea," Sam was saying from behind the living room door. The words were delivered gently, but the bedrock of danger was unmistakable. Who the hell was the kid talking to anyway?

"But Sam, you said I could speak to him when he was better. And then Zach said he was up and around..." Jenna, the whining voice sounded like.

Curious.

Dean felt his way along with wall until he had reached the doorway, light and conversation alike bleeding through the chink of space he could see from his vantage point. He paused, putting a hand to his chest to calm lungs that were protesting vehemently at the intensity of their workout.

"Yeah, well Zach just meant that he was awake. He's not really up to seeing people just now," Sam was sounding more riled by the second.

Dean glowered at the ajar door, meaning for the force of his gaze to barge right through the wooden barrier and smack his little brother upside the head. Sam was talking about him like he was an invalid, or some kind of quivering wreck.

This was ridiculous.

He'd planned to burst into the room with a mighty, powerful presence and show his overprotective brother that he was a glowingly healthy specimen who didn't need a friggin' gatekeeper. But at that moment his cheek decided it wanted to feel the wall again, and he slumped bluntly against it with a dull thud that immediately stopped the continuing chatter on the other side of the doorway.

_Ah, crap!_ He thought, looking wildly around for an escape route before Sam discovered that he'd not only disobeyed the command to stay horizontal in the bedroom, but that he had also proved his brother right by not being able to keep himself upright for the short walk down the corridor.

He'd barely managed to straighten his legs before the door whipped open and Sam strode through, chest puffed up and ruffled like a bird defending its young. He stopped dead before his rebellious big brother, gathering in a huge breath that Dean was certain represented the precursor to one of frowny Sam's patented lectures.

"Hey, Jenna," He called out, neatly pricking his brother's expanding balloon of displeasure.

A pale face peered around Sam's tree trunk of a body, looking for all the world like the ghost of a frightened child Dean had once encountered on a solo hunt years ago. Her auburn hair was scraped back into a bun, accentuating how prominent her cheekbones had become over just a few days. She was wearing a sweater that utterly swamped her, making the young hunter wonder whether the garment had been Jake's. There was a bereft, lost look to her sunken eyes.

She brightened slightly when she met his kind gaze. "Dean! It's so good to see you! How are you?"

Dean flicked his attention to Sam - silently seething in the doorway - to gauge the length of fuse he had to work with. Dangerously short, but the presence of Jenna was a definite mitigating factor.

He might _just_ get out of this unscathed.

"Yeah, I'm good, thanks. So, what's goin' on?" The question was directed at Sam, but it was Jenna he was really asking. He didn't trust his brother to give him the truth of the matter.

Playing her unintended role to perfection, Jenna leapt in before Sam had the chance to perform damage limitation. "Oh, I was just asking Sam how you were, and if maybe I could...you know, thank you for, well, everything" She waved a hand restlessly through the air, the too-long cuff of the sweater flapping madly at the movement.

"You're welcome," He replied genuinely, though he didn't really feel like he'd done anything to help the case except get himself kidnapped.

He pushed himself up from the wall, intending to step past his brother and into the living room. But his cheek seemed to have surgically attached itself to the cream coloured paint, and he would almost certainly have overbalanced if Sam hadn't caught him at the last minute.

"C'mon, Action Man," His brother muttered with affectionate aggravation, taking just enough of Dean's weight to allow him to manoeuvre into the room with a minimum of face loss. Sam seemed to have resigned himself to the fact that the conversation he apparently didn't want his big brother to have with Jenna, was happening anyway.

"_Action Man_?" Dean groused indignantly. "I'm more like _Batman_!"

Sam didn't bother dignifying his brother's assertion with a response, carefully settling him down on the couch, before stepping away to stand menacingly against the wall beside it. Jenna watched him carefully as she sat down on the opposite couch, clearly reading the same bodyguard connotations that Dean was.

There was no way the elder Winchester was standing for _that_.

"Sammy, can you give us a minute?" He kept it light, innocuous. But Sam would read the implicit order hidden between the lines, the Winchester code. _Out. Now._

For a moment Sam looked as if he was going to huff in childish protest. A fist banging, foot stamping, screwed features, _'that's not fair'_ yowl of a protest. But at the last second he changed course. "Fine," He gave curtness instead and swept grandiosely from the room.

Well, look at that. Sammy _had_ finally grown up. Almost.

Now alone together, the room felt heavy and muggy with awkwardness. Dean wasn't quite sure what Jenna had hoped to accomplish by speaking to him, wasn't quite sure what Sam had wanted to protect him from.

"So..." He began, leaning forward to rest his clasped hands on his knees. Peripherally, he caught the flash of white from the bandages encircling his wrists as the fabric of his shirt cuffs rode up. Jenna had noticed too, and was watching them with a somewhat unnerving fixation. "You wanted to...ask me somethin'?"

It felt strange, sitting in that room, talking to a girl he barely knew. Sam's friend. Jessica's old roommate. So much of his brother's solo history; a history that up until now, hadn't included him.

"It sounds kinda weird, I guess...now that I think about it," She picked at her baggy sweater cuffs. "I thought that once I was sitting here, with you, that I'd know what I wanted to hear. But now I'm not so sure."

Dean took a deep breath, and let the resulting exhale unclench his tense muscles. "You want to know what happened." It wasn't a question.

"I thought I did. But then Zach told me it wouldn't help, wouldn't change how I was feeling. You know what it's like, don't you? To lose someone you love?"

_More than you realise_. Dean thought, but instead he nodded mutely.

"I lost Jessica, and now Jake. I just feel like I need some kind of _reason_, some kind of answer. I don't really know why I'm asking you. But Sam, he looks up to you so much. You helped him survive Jess, I just thought..." She trailed off, shrugging slightly.

Dean quirked his lip mirthlessly. "Sam's exaggerating. I haven't done much...It's just family, Jenna. Family is what gets you through. And family can be more than just blood. You got good people here, let them help."

Jenna closed her eyes against a wave of tears, managing to stem the flow just in time - to Dean's relief. Crying women always made him want to run for the hills.

"Jake was chosen because he was a good man. All you can do is remember that."

She nodded, sniffling in a way that suggested the threat of tears was not yet past. "Thanks, Dean. Luis was so wrong about you, you know? Sam was the one who had it right."

Oh?

Dean hesitated on the cusp of asking what she'd meant. Did he really want to know? Did _Sam_ want him to know? _Aw to hell with it!_

"What did, uh...what did Sam say exactly?" Dean almost winced, almost ducked for cover as if he'd just tossed a live grenade into the centre of the room.

When Jenna squinted curiously at him, he wished he hadn't asked. He certainly hadn't intended to reveal so much of himself to this virtual stranger, and he now knew exactly how much he'd let slip by that simple question.

"He said you were a better man than Luis would ever be. Said you saved lives for the right reasons, and that you were braver than _he _was." She paused hesitantly, looking as if she was judging how much she should divulge. "You know...I wasn't sure about you at first. But you're a good man too. Sam makes much more sense as a person now that I've met you"

Dean swallowed, reeling from the meaning of her words and not at all sure what to make of her explanation. Sam had really said all that? He blew out a shocked breath, staring intently at his clasped hands in the hope that they'd provide some sort of inspiration for an appropriate response. But Jenna saved him from having to try.

"Dean...I said some stuff to Sam, before. At Jessica's funeral. I don't know if he's ever really forgiven me..."

Dean's head snapped up. Where Sam was concerned it was a reflex he had no control over. He might have said something scathing, might have tried to demolish her for hurting his brother if he hadn't remembered how easy it was to blurt out barbed words in the heat of an emotional moment. And if he hadn't remembered what kind of man his brother was.

"He'll forgive you, Jenna. Probably already has. Go talk to him, he'll be wearin' a hole in the carpet outside somewhere." Dean offered her a smile, a real one, and was surprised when he suddenly started feeling better inside himself.

Sam's friends weren't so bad. Not really.

* * *

><p>Dean had just been entertaining vague thoughts of making the long and arduous journey to the kitchen to get a glass of something cold when Sam – psychic boy that he was – materialised before him, chilled tumbler in hand. The elder hunter hadn't even heard him come in.<p>

"Here," Sam murmured as he passed the drink to his brother before giving Dean's legs an insistent tap. "C'mon, we had a deal, remember?"

The elder Winchester heaved a theatrical sigh complete with dramatic eye roll, shifting backwards on the couch and lifting his limbs to rest along the padded surface. He took a long swig from the glass, savouring the feeling of cool bubbles against his recovering throat. "Jenna gone?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam cast him a pregnant look, retreating to the opposite couch and sitting carefully. Too carefully. "You okay?"

So this was how it was going to be? Well, then Dean would play along.

"I'm fine, Sam." The elder Winchester replied easily, settling back against the soft leather and waiting for his brother to stop beating around whatever bush was causing him distress. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"What did you and Jenna talk about?" Ah, there it was, the too casual question.

"A gentleman never tells, Sammy!" Dean wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. Deflection tactics 101 had been one of the best lessons his father had ever taught him. The problem was, Sam had received the same curriculum, and knew how to parry.

"Yeah. But you're not a gentleman!" Sam rebounded effortlessly with a wicked grin.

"I'm _hurt_, Sammy!" Dean chuckled, warmth spreading within him at their easy banter. Things were starting to return to normal, or _better_ than normal between them. And Dean would rather cut off his own hand than admit it, but it was when he was truly at his happiest.

Sam cleared his throat, the apprehensive sound always associated in Dean's mind with a return to seriousness. "Did she say anything to you?" He pressed anxiously.

Dean drained his glass in one long gulp and leaned over to set it down on the coffee table with a deliberate clunk. "Sam, I don't need protectin' from five foot three inches of nothin'! I don't need protectin' period. We talked, that's all. She's actually _okay_, for one of _your_ friends anyway!"

There was no way he was even touching on what Jenna had told him. He wasn't sure who would be more embarrassed if he brought it up. Okay, himself. _Definitely _himself.

Besides, if Sammy had wanted him to know...

"Thanks!" Sam huffed in mock indignation, before shooting his brother a sneaky smile. "Said the same about you. Sure there isn't something going on that I should know about?"

"Like I said, Sammy-."

"Yeah, I know. Gentleman, right. I got it." Sam held his hands up in a show of affected defeat, but he was smiling in a way that Dean hadn't seen for a long time. Losing Jessica had nearly demolished his brother, but Dean believed what he had said to Jenna. Family was what was important, and he intended to reinforce that message to Sam as much as he needed to.

* * *

><p>"Take care of yourself, Sam," Riley clapped the younger Winchester on the shoulder with enough enthusiastic force to send him reeling back against the body of the Impala.<p>

"Thanks, man! You too," He replied, pulling his friend into a brief embrace and ignoring the glimpse he'd caught of Dean's teasing eye roll in his peripheral vision.

"That goes for you too, Dean," Riley called across the roof of the Chevy to where Dean was leaning - a little heavily in Sam's opinion - against the driver door. The younger Winchester watched as his brother inclined his head in acknowledgement.

Dean had wakened early, and had been pestering Sam like an excited child on Christmas morning, desperate to get back on the road and to their life. The younger hunter had delighted in stonewalling each entreaty, waiting until the moment of maximum frustration to finally declare his big brother fit for travel. The resulting fireworks had been a sight to behold.

But Dean had gotten his own back by thwarting Sam's plan to insist that _he_ be the one to drive the Impala by taking possession of both keys and refusing to yield his hiding place. There had been mutterings and murmurs of Sam's mistreatment of his _baby_ and how he needed to be the one to _nurse her back to health_.

It was at that moment that the younger man had almost disregarded the bandage on his fist. After all, Dean was always a lot easier to manage if he was unconscious. But he'd stayed his hand, resolving to let his big brother take the wheel for a little while to butter him up before initiating a hostile takeover. He didn't like it, feeling that Dean still needed time to recover. But he had to admit that his big brother would heal more quickly on the road.

That was Dean's way.

Sam would just have to keep an eye on him. And he'd had more than enough practice over the past few days.

They'd been mostly packed and ready to leave when the others had arrived. Sam could tell that Dean had been disappointed at the delay to their departure, but he'd said nothing, offering his little brother the space he needed to leave his old life and friends behind again. Dean understood what Sam's choice had been, the younger man knew he'd made that perfectly clear: his brother would always be more important.

When, and _not_ if - Sam told himself – they killed the demon that had blighted their lives, he still planned on returning to college. But this time he'd make sure he took his brother with him. They'd make it work. There was no _way_ he was cutting Dean out of his life again.

Sam had been pleased to see that Luis had done the decent thing and stayed well away. The younger hunter hadn't really felt like splitting his knuckles open again, especially not over that worthless sonofabitch. But Jenna, Riley, Kate and Elena had all come to see them off.

Dean had given them an awkward and red-faced thank you, stubbornly refusing to meet Sam's proud gaze or to acknowledge his affectionate pat on the shoulder, and had then retreated to the safety of his beloved car. He still wasn't moving well, but he no longer looked as if he might keel over without warning. And Sam would have to be grudgingly satisfied with that.

Sam turned to Kate, pulling her into a loose hug; aware that Dean was chatting with Zach on the other side of the Impala. He viewed them furtively as they shook hands, sharing some kind of big brother code of honour discussion that Sam decided was actually quite comforting – if a little irritating. His friends and his brother coming together had made him happier than he'd ever thought possible, and he marvelled once more at how he could ever have come to any other conclusion.

Why had he _ever _thought separate lives were necessary?

Letting go of Kate, and thanking her softly once more, he caught Jenna's eye. They'd talked a great deal the previous night, and Sam suspected that Dean had had more to do with that than his brother might have admitted. Jenna had apologised for blaming him for Jess' death; words that had haunted him long after, their truth emblazoned indelibly in his mind every time he closed his eyes. She'd been right then of course, but knowing that she no longer blamed him had lightened the unbearable weight in his heart.

She stepped up to him. "I meant what I said last night, Sam," She whispered. "Jess would have liked him...once she got to know him, anyway!" They shared a smile at Dean's expense, glancing across to where the elder hunter was enduring a crushing hug from Rebecca. "And she wouldn't have thought any less of you if she'd known what you do. She loved you, Sam."

Sam inhaled deeply, hoping that the influx of oxygen would somehow evaporate the tears that were pricking urgently at his eyes. Nodding, he swiped an anticipatory hand across his face. Just in case. "I know. Thanks." He managed, voice breaking slightly as Jessica's angelic image floated accusingly in front of his eyes; bittersweet memories and destroyed hopes constricting his throat.

He'd never stop blaming himself for what had happened. But maybe, just maybe, he was ready to start moving on.

"Now, don't be a stranger, Sam!" He turned to face Zach, one of his closest friends and the man who had been like a brother to him when his own had been absent. He knew now that to have compared the relationship he'd had with Zach to what he had with Dean had been like comparing the trickle of a tributary stream to the majestic expanse of an ocean. He'd always have a place for his old friend in his heart, especially after all that Zach had done to help him save his brother, but he was ready to leave.

Ready to go home.

"We won't," Sam replied, implicitly including Dean. "But I can't promise we'll be in touch all the time. It gets...hectic. Our job."

"Yeah, we know!" Rebecca cut in with a teasing smile. "That's what _emails_ are for!"

"Thanks for everything, guys," Sam hugged each sibling in turn, before pivoting to face his brother over the roof of the Impala. The younger man smirked slightly as he caught sight of the big brotherly affection that Dean just didn't quite manage to hide in time.

"Ready to hit the road?" Dean queried as he tugged open the driver door with a wrenching creak, pausing hesitantly to wait for Sam's response.

Sam let his eyes scan the scene around him, committing it to memory like a precious memento: the stately sandstone buildings; the lush, tree-lined sidewalks that had once been as familiar to him as the Impala's interior; the brightly smiling faces of his friends. When his gaze finally came to rest on his brother's still uncertain features, he knew his answer.

"Definitely"

* * *

><p><em>Thanks for reading! So that's pretty much it...can't believe this is nearly at an end! Anyone up for a chick-flicky epilogue? ;)<em>


	19. Epilogue

Hi everyone!

So this is it...the final part. It's taken me about six months to get here, but I've enjoyed every minute and I hope you've all enjoyed reading!

Thanks again to everyone who has reviewed and added this story to their favourites, and to all those who have kept on reading!

I really wasn't kidding when I said this was a chick-flicky epilogue, so you have been warned! ;)

Hope you enjoy! :)

* * *

><p>Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural, nor any canon characters therein, and I am making no profit from this piece of fiction.<p>

**Epilogue**

Dean Winchester settled back in the driver's seat, the rumble of the Impala's engine purring contentedly beneath him, around him, within him. His girl was clearly as glad to see _him_ as he was _her_. He could feel the thrill at being behind the wheel start to build from his core, radiating outwards like some magical healing force; sealing his wounds and charging him with an energy that felt electric.

He couldn't wait to get out onto the open road, to see the empty stretch of dark asphalt laid out endlessly before him, to feel the freedom of unknown possibilities. Dean was a drifter, a nomad with no fixed roots except those of the people and objects he held close to him, anchoring him.

Home was something he took with him everywhere.

But before he gave in to the euphoric abandonment of flying full throttle down an open road, AC/DC blasting out at ear-drum bursting levels, there was just one thing he wanted to do first. It was an idea that had sat patiently waiting at the back of his mind since they'd crossed the California border all those days ago. He'd dismissed it then, deciding that there hadn't been enough evidence for a full hearing.

When they'd arrived in Palo Alto there had been so much distance between them, an invisible, unacknowledged wall that nevertheless both had been acutely aware of. They'd attempted to scale it, hack it to pieces, demolish it with a wrecking ball...but only after Dean's near-death experience had both of them simply thought to just open the door that had sat unnoticed before their eyes.

It hadn't seemed right to give his idea a platform back then. Not when they'd been rushing to Jenna's aid, when they'd had murders to solve. Not when Sam had been so damn fragile.

Dean could remember the way his brother's quiet grief had rolled from him like a gathering fog as they'd cruised along the streets of Sam's old home. The elder hunter had sensed the recrimination, the agony building within Sam as the younger man had stared out at the passing streets – eyes closing in pain as sights Dean couldn't share flashed before his eyes.

Jessica's murder was one of the few ways they hadn't connected, an emotional gulf that still divided them. Dean knew his capability of understanding the horror of what Sam had endured – and _continued_ to endure – was lacking in a way that was both supremely frustrating and gut wrenchingly upsetting. Watching Sam bear the pain with brave stoicism had made Dean swell with pride at his little brother's seemingly unceasing strength, but it had also left him devastated that he hadn't been allowed behind the mask.

But the elder Winchester desperately wanted to understand, and wanted Sam to have the chance to face up to the grief he had been avoiding ever since he'd returned to the hunt. The kid hadn't spoken much about Jessica, and when he had, each word had seemed to burn within him like the fire that had taken her. Dean hoped - though he knew a loss as horrific and as complex as Sam's would _not_ disappear over night – that if his brother had the chance to draw a line underneath Palo Alto with the support of his family, that maybe it would help him to start moving on.

The last time Sam had been here, to this place, he hadn't wanted his big brother with him. He'd stood at her graveside surrounded by people, but unbearably alone; separated from the crowd by a secret torment that none of the others could possibly have understood. Dean had known what Sam had needed then, but he hadn't been sure enough of his welcome in those days. This time, he intended to step up and provide the foundation that his brother had been crying out for.

Family.

Dean glanced across at his brother, gauging mood and wellbeing from one sweep of his eyes. Sam had been silent since they'd left the Warren's apartment. Not an uncomfortable silence, but serene. Peaceful. His little brother was one of the few people Dean knew who could say so much by saying so little – every inch his father's son.

The elder hunter bit his lip as anxiety started to cross-examine the patient little idea that had just taken the stand. The trial was now in full swing: jury in situ, witnesses called, judge sternly observing proceedings.

Maybe he wasn't doing the right thing. What did he know, anyway? Maybe he shouldn't start something he knew would wipe the contented expression from his brother's face, a demeanour that was heart-breakingly rare these days. And maybe Sam would resent the interference, would take exception to what he might – rightly or wrongly – perceive as some sort of intervention. In many ways, the elder hunter still felt as if his little brother was riddled with emotional land mines; and though Dean had been carefully treading, he couldn't shake the fear that he'd make a wrong move.

But there was a very large part of Dean that knew Sam would regret not coming here, would regret not paying his respects.

And now that the elder Winchester had tasted the life his brother had left, the world Sam had loved so much...now that he'd been allowed to share some small part of it, he wanted to share _this_ too. His brother's burden.

He just hoped the gesture didn't backfire, because he knew who would be hurt most if it did. And he'd already ruined Sam's life more than enough.

The kid hadn't been paying much attention to where they were going, his eyes flickering from Dean to whatever solitary blankness he was seeing in front of his eyes. The older man pretended not to notice his brother's surreptitious inspection, knowing that Sam was looking for any excuse to stop him from driving. It was as gratifyingly warming as it was intensely irritating. There was no way Sam was prising his hands from the wheel of his beloved car, but the fact that the kid looked ready to _try_ made Dean smile with a fondness he couldn't hide.

When the elder Winchester made the turn off, Sam suddenly jolted awake at his side as if waking from an inadvertent coma. Dean's keen eyes didn't miss the way his brother's body stiffened, hand curling to claw tensely at the door handle. Nor did the sudden quickness of Sam's breathing elude the older man's attention, or the way his eyelids fluttered faintly.

What if Sam wasn't ready for this? What if he'd just made the situation infinitely worse?

Dean fretted soundlessly in the driver's seat, what was now a loud and raucous debate raging aggressively in his head. He petitioned the judge: should he turn around? Just pretend they hadn't come here?

They could still leave Palo Alto without doing this. They didn't even have to make any kind of verbal acknowledgement that..._this_ had even happened – which would normally have been Dean's preferred option. But panic had just started its cross-examination, and Dean's idea seemed to have run out of steam under the onslaught.

There was one other option though: Dean could just _ask_ Sam how he felt...

He cleared his throat, nervousness leading the action to rip off the new layer of cells he'd managed to replenish since the fire. "Sam?"

A movement of eyes so quick it couldn't have even been called a glance.

"We, uh, we don't have to do this if you...we can just...leave. I just thought-," He began, stammering slightly through a silence that was suddenly crackling, little blue bolts of electricity seeming to spark in the air between them.

"It's okay," Sam swivelled to face him, pallor turning grey in the yellow sunlight that smiled cheerfully in through the windscreen. Emotion had tautened his skin and thinned his lips until they were almost white, but there was a calmness growing there too, an acceptance that shone from his eyes.

"Okay, then," Dean nodded, emboldened by his brother's consent, though doubt still lingered – tensely biting its nails. "You sure? Cos we can just-."

"Yeah," Sam's lips drew upwards into a bittersweet smile, but he turned back to continue staring into the space beyond the Impala's fender. "Truth is, I've been thinking about this for a while."

Dean drew the Chevy to a halt in a small parking lot that was almost deserted due to the early hour. One other light coloured sedan sat forlornly on the dappled asphalt, lonely underneath the overhanging bough of a sturdy looking sycamore that was crowned by a glittering mosaic of differently hued leaves.

The path that led to the cemetery was well-worn, flagged stone pavings that bore the marks left by decades of grieving footsteps. Dean tried to imagine his brother walking down its lazily undulating curves; enveloped by people and yet so achingly alone. He ought to have been there, even though Sammy hadn't wanted it.

Still, he was there now.

Dean carefully manoeuvred himself out of the car - his torso still uncooperative and tender. Trying discreetly to hide the resulting wince from his over-observant brother, he turned to face the passenger side, halting immediately upon discovering that Sam was already watching him. He'd half expected to see wariness in the younger man's eyes, or even guarded distance.

All he saw was need.

"Want me to stay here?" Dean asked uncertainly, still edging his way gingerly around his brother's volatile emotions. He was sure of his place in Sam's life now in every other way but this.

"No." Dean was surprised at the conviction in Sam's reply, warmth pooling comfortingly in his stomach at the inherent confirmation that his brother wanted him at his side. Needed him there.

They walked in silence, Sam covertly taking some of Dean's weight when he'd stumbled slightly from the stiffness of having been in the car for all of half an hour. The elder man snorted internally, as if he hadn't noticed! But he didn't call his brother on the gesture, acutely aware that he needed it just as much as Sam appeared to.

He allowed his brother to lead the way. This was Sam's show now, and Dean was more than happy to play the supporting role.

Dean had been to many cemeteries in his life. The number so large that they had begun to blur indistinguishably together in memory. What existed in his mind now was an almost formless composite, existing merely as a sinister army of rank and file tombstones – the odd figurehead mausoleum breaking through the monotony. He'd rarely stopped to pick out details. Graveyards were his workplace: holding pens for death and loss, keepers of vengeful spirits.

He'd never thought of them as possessing the capacity for solace before, but just as he'd felt Sam tense up in the car when they'd arrived, he could feel his brother begin to settle as they moved past the monuments. There was an almost tranquil pulchritude to the place, a reverent hush that seemed to dissuade even the resident birds from calling out to disturb the quietude. The tombstones here were festooned with flowers and tokens, neat and well tended; signs of a love that surpassed even death

It took several minutes to find her resting place, Sam seeming to drift there in a trance. Dean laid a hand on his brother's shoulder, conveying without words that he was there, that his presence wouldn't waver.

The older man stilled as Sam patted the offered hand in wordless gratitude, allowing it to fall from his shoulder as he stepped forward to kneel before the headstone, fingers tracing the delicate inscription before lightly trailing up to caress Jessica's image.

When the tears started to fall without shudder, sound or warning, Dean went to him. Ignoring the tug at his stitches, he bent to kneel beside Sam, laying a hand across his brother's heaving shoulders, drawing him into a loose embrace.

Dean hated to see his brother upset, Sam's cries triggering his frantic inner parent as easily as they had when the kid had been baby, toddler, child and teenager. But he also knew that crying could be cathartic, that letting it build up could lead to the expression of emotion in other ways...sometimes dangerous ways. Not that he often followed his own advice.

_Do as I say, not as I do..._

Unbidden, the image of his drunken father lurching blindly through their motel room door after a seventy-two hour bender hovered before his eyes. The fifteen year old he'd been then had been experienced far beyond his years in cleaning up John Winchester's messes. But though angry at the darkness that his father had been exposing Sam to, he had nevertheless ached at the man's unmasked pain; knowing intuitively that there had been nothing he could do about it.

But Sam was one of the most well adjusted people he knew – he _had_ raised the kid after all - and Dean was going to make sure his brother stayed that way.

When Sam's tears had finally abated, they hadn't come stuttering to a halt. Instead, they had gradually lessened in force until they had become little more than tiny hiccups. Dean had realised by this point that he was incapable of moving, that his body had seized up like a piece of jerky. When the younger Winchester rose, he tried to mimic the action, but ended up embarrassingly slumped to the side as his knees locked.

Sam huffed slightly, a curious blend of sadness, affection, disapproval and amusement. "Sorry, man," he murmured, voice still sounding hoarse from tears as he reached down to help his brother up. "You all right?"

Dean cleared his throat gruffly as he regained his balance, patting Sam on the shoulder to let his brother know that the continued grip around his waist was unnecessary. "Yeah," he paused significantly. "You?"

Sam's eyes were red rimmed as he met Dean's penetrating gaze, his cheeks flushed and clammy. But somehow he looked _good_. There was a relief that glowed around him, almost blindingly. "Yeah," he nodded, removing his arm from around Dean's waist and laying across his brother's shoulder instead, all the while ignoring the half-hearted attempt to dislodge it. "C'mon."

They found a bench not far from the parking lot, neither man feeling bound by a sense of urgency in this peaceful, almost timeless place. Sam seemed to have remembered his self-imposed task of scrutinising his big brother's every move, dodging Dean's defensive hands as he gently deposited the older man down onto a wooden surface that radiated warmth from the sun's beneficence.

"Damn it, Sam, I'm _fine_!" Dean groused, though he didn't move away when Sam's shoulder came to rest against his as they sat side by side in companionable silence. In truth, he welcomed the contact; a tangible sign that they were comfortable in their brotherhood once more. But if anyone was ever to ask, he was doing it out of the goodness of his heart because _Sam_ needed the support.

After a while the younger Winchester inhaled the kind of deep breath that had always elicited something premonitory in his big brother. "Dean?"

"Yeah?" He replied, trying to force nonchalance into his voice as he settled his gaze upon the bark of a tired looking pine tree directly in his line of sight.

"I know how you feel about your chick-flick moments, dude, but-," Sam began, and Dean swore he could actually hear his brother's tentative smile – a deduction he was able to confirm when he turned in sputtering disbelief to interrupt.

"_My_ chick-flick moments? Dude, that is so much more your thing. I mean, you _are _the girl of the family, after all!" At Sam's scowl he relented, loosening his hunched shoulders. His brother had been through so much. Surely Dean could manage a few minutes of...talking. He groaned theatrically. "All right, I guess I can let you have a free pass...just this _once_!"

The pointed finger he raised for emphasis could leave Sam in no doubt of the temporary nature of his submission.

Sam gave a small snort in response and ducked his head, hesitating for a brief moment as if he didn't quite believe that his big brother was really letting him broach an emotional subject. "Listen...thanks, Dean."

"For what?" Dean swung his head around reflexively, quirking a brow in confusion.

"For _what?_" Sam echoed incredulously. "Well for _today_, to start off with...for being there after everything with Jess-."

"Sam..." Dean began with another slight groan. The elder Winchester couldn't help but remember Jenna's words from the previous night, all that Sam thought his big brother had apparently done for him. But it wasn't _true_, and Dean didn't think he could handle listening to his brother thanking him on the basis of some kind of misconception that he actually _knew_ what he was doing half the time.

"Uh-uh, free pass remember?" Sam smiled softly, clearly foregoing the usual nudge to the ribs out of consideration for his brother's injuries. He coughed delicately. "I haven't been fair to you...I've been a _jerk_ a lot of the time...especially about school."

"What do you mean?" Dean frowned. Where was _this_ coming from? That fight they'd had days ago? The one where _he_ hadn't exactly held his tongue either?

Sam sighed, mouth opening and closing slowly as he seemed to struggle for words. He swiped a hand across his jaw agitatedly. "I'm _sorry_ about cutting you off."

Dean felt himself go rigid in reflex response to the thought of all those years of estrangement, of the solitary nights spent shovelling dirt in random graveyards, of stitching up his own wounds and staggering to local clinics for the ones he _couldn't_. He swallowed against the lump that had risen like the swell of tide in his throat, aware that Sam was waiting for a response but knowing he was incapable of providing one.

In the absence of a verbal reaction from his big brother, Sam continued. "It was wrong. I shouldn't have told you to stop calling. It was never what I wanted, but I was so angry at...well, at pretty much _everything_...just, I'm _sorry_."

Dean exhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenched too tight to allow the breath an alternative outlet. In many ways this had been the acknowledgement he'd always wanted from his brother. On those lonely, empty hunts he'd have given anything for Sam to call him and apologise. He'd felt so aggrieved; scorned by his brother's rejection.

But now, he found Sam's regret wasn't what he wanted. When he'd analysed his own actions, he'd realised that the blame had never lain entirely with Sam.

Dean had been the one who'd had problems letting go, with being able to handle his family's distressing fragmentation. If he'd just accepted from the start that Sammy hadn't wanted to hunt, they might have been able to work something out without nearly destroying their relationship. But there had been anger and hurt on both sides, ignited into chaos by an overdose of stubbornness.

"I'm sorry, too." The elder hunter admitted, rubbing at his temples in the hope that he might somehow be able to clear the emotional detritus from his mind. "I wanted us all to stay together, but I should've realised that you bein' at school didn't stop us from bein' family."

"Well, good." Sam began slowly. "Because, I _am_ still going back." He stopped, studying Dean as the older man tried to assimilate this announcement.

Dean wasn't quite sure what to do with it. He'd felt so much dread at the thought of losing Sam to the rose coloured world of Stanford life, and yet he'd hoped that the simple fact of their brotherhood would be enough to persuade the kid to stay. But then, he didn't want his selfishness to stand in the way of his brother's happiness. That had happened too many times.

Sam was his brother, but he was also in many ways like a son he'd nurtured and watched grow before his eyes. He didn't care what happened to himself; _his_ life was already set on a course that he had no hope of changing, nor an ability to conceive of an alternative route. But Sam...he could _choose_. And Dean knew he'd have to let him.

He still hated the thought of Sam returning to college, the fear of being alone still bricked in with his foundations. But having seen the life his brother could have...Sam had been right back in Chicago. Dean would have to let him go.

With a prescience that had Dean wondering whether Sam _did _actually possess some latent mind-reading abilities, his brother began speaking once more. "But it won't be until we've killed the demon, until this is all over. I don't want to live this life forever...But I shouldn't have said what I did back in Chicago...about you letting me go, about wanting to be a real person again. Truth is Dean, I want you to come with me. I wouldn't be a real person if..."

That last one had Dean reaching his affective tipping point, and the gate came crashing down. "Sam, you know I can't give up huntin'-,"

"I know you _think _you can't! But we'll work something out, even if I have to drag you with me." Sam chuckled in a manner that made Dean suspect his brother was only half-joking.

"Just try it, Sam. See how far you get!" Dean threw back cockily with a snort intended to convey just how likely he thought it was that his brother would win.

"Dean, I mean it. Things are _not_ going back to the way they were. You're my family." _You're too important_. Sam clearly knew that there were limits to his big brother's toleration of caring and sharing, but the unsaid words hung like moisture in the air nonetheless.

Dean felt their meaning drip softly onto his skin, seeping down through the surface until his mind finally grasped them too. "Yeah. Right back at ya." He offered quietly, before noisily clearing his throat. Moment over. "So...we good?"

"Yeah. We're good." Sam practically beamed in response. He seemed to understand that his brother's indulgence of their epic chick-flick discussion had come to a definite end, but after the mileage he'd gotten out of it, he didn't appear too upset.

Dean, for his part, was hoping that he'd be off the hook for girly chats for a good long while. Maybe they could even get back to doing more manly things; like having a contest to see who could pick up the most numbers in the next bar – which Dean knew he'd win _hands _down. Or, like the prank wars they'd mercilessly tormented each other with in their youth – for which Dean _also_ knew he'd claim victory.

Now there was a thought. _And_ there was still the payback he owed Sammy after the way the kid had set him up during Fitch's interview...

_Art friggin' History!_

"Okay, then. Let's get goin'," Dean pushed himself up from the bench before Sam had the chance to assist him. "There's a great little diner 'bout an hour down the road from here..."

"Dean, we just had breakfast, like, an hour and a half ago. You ate _two_ helpings!" Sam was shaking his head in faint disbelief as he hurried to catch up.

"Yeah, but wait'll you see the _menu_ Sammy..." Dean turned back to flash his widest grin. "And the food's not bad either!"

"All right, what was her name?"

"How the hell should I know? But you shoulda _seen_ her-"

"_Dean_!"

"What? I was gonna say _buns_!"

"You know what? You're hopeless."

"I was talkin' about burgers Sam. I can't help it if you've got a dirty mind!"

"Just get in the car, Dean!"

"I'll do it in my own time. _Bitch_!"

"Whatever... _Jerk_!"

* * *

><p><em><em>I really hope you enjoyed this little epilogue, and the story as a whole. <em>Thanks so much for reading! _


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